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lUNITED STATES OF AMERICA. g 






MY CONFESSIONS 



TO 



SILVIO PELLICO. 




LONDON : 
SCIUJLZE AND CO. 13, POLAND STREET. 




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MY CONFESSIONS 



TO 



SILVIO PELLICO. 



THE 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 



GUIDO SORELLI. 



THIRD EDITION. 



LONDON: 
FOR THE AUTHOR, 18, PICCADILLY ; 

P. ROLANDI, BERNERS STREET ; SHERWOOD AND CO* 

PATERNOSTER ROW ; AND SIMPKIN AND MARSHALL, 

STATIONERS-HALL COURT. 

1837. 



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ADDRESS TO THE READER. 

The Title is the Preface of my book. It is as eloquent as 
it is awful ! Therefore I shall abstain from weakening it, by 
adding many words to it; for, should they even prove 
the most eloquent that were ever uttered by human tongue, 
they would only be as stars in comparison with the sun. 

But, as the views and feelings of man are seldom understood, 
and his actions very often misconstrued, it is but just that I 
should acquaint all those who know me not, that the object of 
this publication has neither been to add a plume to the chaplet, 
nor a leaf to the wreath — neither to climb the steep, unprofit- 
able rock of worldly fame, — nor to enrich my coffers. — No ! — I 
have solely aimed at my own self-abasement, by publicly 
acknowledging my errors and misdeeds : convinced as I am, 
that " whoso confesseth his sins, and forsaketh them, shall 
have mercy " 

By so doing, I have also hoped— as I humbly pray to be 
enabled — to work some good for my beloved Roman Catholic 
Countrymen. 

No head am I of the political nydra ! — Therefore none must 
expect to derive, from the perusal of my work, even a spark of 
that kind of excitement, which, now- a- day, so unfortunately 
engrosses all the thoughts of almost every mind . • • * all the 
feelings of almost every heart. 

Neither do I possess the gift — and I prize it not ! — of writing 
fictitious compositions, calculated to make the reader fly from 
himself, and avoid the saddening contemplation of his own heart. 
Consequently, whoever hunts after mere amusement, and makes 



IV ADDRESS TO THE READER. 

it the business of his life ever to shun the stern countenance of 
upbraiding truth, let him not open my Book, for it will prove 
no bait to such a mind — no food for such an appetite. 

MY CONFESSIONS TO SILVIO PELLICO 

are nothing more, nor less, than a faithful statement of the 
uninterrupted mercy of the Lord towards a sinner — showing 
by what a chain of strange, unavoidable and unforeseen events, 
and by what a path of deep, though transient sorrow, I have 
been led by Divine Providence to open the Bible, to read it in 
the spirit of prayer and humility, and, at last, having become 
a Protestant, to be enabled to feel, and to say with David : 

u Great is the peace that they have who love Thy law, and 
they ore not of ended at it." 

It only now remains for me to return my heart-felt thanks 
to my subscribers, and to all who take an interest in this 
production ; but especially to Miss Susan Wollaston for her 
exquisite version of the poetry contained in it. 



18, Piccadilly, 
July 1st, 1836. 



PART I. 




:::™i(0) ipbil: 



Drawn, on Sioueiy W. P. Sherlock 
■Printed/ fa/ C. JEv. C'r,w. r.-xcT 



MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER I. 

" Who is it that addresses me?" " Guido Sorelli /" — and 
whence comes this Guido Sorelli ? or what has he in common 
with me ? 

These questions will naturally present themselves to the 
mind of Silvio Pellico upon opening my book, and thus I 
answer them : 

In Guido Sorelli, who ventures to address you, picture to 
yourself a Florentine, who, in search of an honourable subsist- 
ence, voluntarily banished himself from his native country in 
the year 182 1, and has since that period dwelt in England's 
capital. That which he has in common with you, Silvio, is 
piety, philosophy, and benevolence. Many readers will doubt- 
less hastily close my book at the very outset for my presump- 
tion in venturing to address one to whom I am unknown. But 
you, Pellico, will listen to me. Your incomparable book, " Le 
mie Prigioni," is the very mirror of your soul ; and in it I be- 
hold reflected that which the Lord takes pleasure in creating — 
an honest man — the noblest work of God ! 

Oh Italy ! how blessed art thou to be the parent of a mind 
so lovely ! God has not yet abandoned my unhappy country 



MY CONFESSIONS. 

since she may call you her son — you whom the virtuous of 
every nation will admire, reverence, and endeavour to imi- 
tate. 

Why may I not consecrate to you, Pellico, the ecstatic feel- 
ings awakened within me by your " Prigioni" ? — where 
shall I look for sufferings so prolonged and so severe — for pa- 
tience so angelic « — such confidence in God, such forgiveness 
for the injuries inflicted by man ? 

My heart yearns to you with admiration and gratitude. The 
good you have wrought in me, the courage with which you 
have animated my spirit, and the many and evident tokens you 
have displayed to me of God's mercy, attract me to you as to a 
brother ; you will not then disdain a friendship founded upon 
the lessons taught me by yourself — upon the love of virtue with 
which I am inspired by your example ! No ! God would not 
that you should reject it ; even that God who, whilst men in- 
carcerated your body, shed His spirit upon your living tomb, 
and was your light, your support, and your comfort ! Bestow 
then upon me your friendship, as I give you mine. True it is 
that we are personally unknown to each other — Silvio and Guido 
may probably never even meet in this world. But it matters not 
— the soul knows neither distance nor separation. The soul, 
which can burst asunder the bonds of a dark and corrupt world, 
and rise to its heavenly dwelling-place to repose in the bosom 
of its God, can in an instant effect such an union of spirit on 
earth, that friends may believe themselves near to each other, 
though their separation be as wide as from pole to pole. You 
are and ever shall be near to me. My heart shall disburthen 
itself to you, and take you as its model in courage and in vir- 
tue, I will learn from you ever to rely upon God, to bless 
Him, to praise Him ; and my paradise upon earth shall spring 
from your own maxim : — " to love much, and hate no man." 
In the following pages I will endeavour concisely to relate 
the events of my past life, in which it will be perceived that 
the same motive which induced you to give your history to the 
world has also animated Guido, that men may know how much 



MY CONFESSIONS. 3 

he has endured in this world of sorrow. But who may tell if 
this offering shall ever meet your eye, or if the span of Guido's 
life be extended longer than that he may publish to the worl<F 
how much he cherished the name of Silvio from the hour he 
first learned his virtue and his philantrophy. But that mat- 
ters not ; — another world awaits us — a life eternal, where the 
just will all meet in the presence of their God ! How much 
the blessed spirits must rejoice when they view from their hea- 
venly dwelling place the triumph of those mortals without 
whose example and the morality inculcated in their writings, 
their fellow men had persevered in the iniquity of their ways, 
and been lost for ever ! 



CHAPTER II. 



Florence is my native town. I know not if you have ever 
dwelt there, Silvio. It would seem to me as if your nature 
partook much of the gentleness that characterises my country- 
men. But although I would that mine own loved natal home 
had been also yours, do not imagine me possessed of a spirit so 
contracted as to be unable to esteem the virtuous and the talent- 
ed not only of all Italy, but of every nation upon earth, No !— I 
have not lived so long among strangers without acquiring, in 
some degree, the feelings of a " Citizen of the World ;" but 
like yourself, when, in a solitary prison, thoughts of Saluzzo 
came over your mind, awakening the kindliest feelings, even so 
does the very name of Florence fall upon my spirit with ail the 
tenderness of early association. The cradle is our world ; and 
bright to our imagination is the sun that has shone upon our 
infancy — dear to memory is the home of our childhood ; though 
too often obscured by clouds and childish sorrows, still the spot 
where we have first awakened into existence must be the point 
in which is centered our first affections, the union of the most 
tender sentiments of the heart. My father and mother were 

B 2 



4 MY CONFESSIONS. 

both Florentines, and ranked among the middle class of their 
countrymen ; but towards the close of the last century, at which 
period I was born, they obtained some degree of consideration 
from the wealth they had acquired. Their characters were the 
exact contrast of each other, but in both the fear of God was a 
predominant sentiment. In my father was implanted patience, 
courage, industry, and the noble desire of erecting his own 
fortune by dint of unwearied labour, constant and fatiguing at- 
tention, and honourable dealings. With the love of his Crea- 
tor, and a feeling of universal philantrophy towards his fellow- 
creatures, the slighest symptom of dispute or disturbance 
seemed to sadden his spirit, and shade with sorrow the noble 
expression of his countenance. His sole ambition was to be- 
stow upon his children an education superior to that he had 
himself received, to have them instructed in every branch of 
knowledge of which he was himself ignorant. His first prin- 
ciple was to ascertain our different inclinations. He therefore 
invited to his house masters of every description, leaving to our 
choice the selection of such studies as were the most agree- 
able to us. Unlike the generality of parents at Florence, he 
wished each of us to pursue a different profession and occupa- 
tion. He would thus argue : 

" Should the capricious wheel of Fortune turn more in fa- 
vour of one than the other of my boys, he will be enabled to 
compensate to his brothers for the injustice they shall have re- 
ceived at the hands of the fickle goddess : they will thus be be- 
nefited by his prosperity, and each shall have the consolation 
of bestowing and receiving assistance from his own kindred." 

A heart so noble, a mind so serene, was like purified gold — 
too pure, unmixed as it was with the alloy necessary to 
mould it into a form adapted to a world like this. Ever 
ready from his own inclination to do good, a faithful and sin- 
cere friend, his heart was incapable of suspicion; so that, judg- 
ing all men by himself, he dreamed not that the tear of sorrow 
could be ever feigned, until in one brief hour, by a tale of as- 
sumed distress, he was himself deprived of the fruits of fifty 



MY CONFESSIONS. 5 

years of long and unwearied labour. Amongst those of the 
legal profession, who attended my father during his misfor- 
tunes, more than one suggested to him the plan of re±- 
taining some of his yet remaining property for the support of 
himself and his family ; but it may be supposed that he who 
had ever been alive to every honourable feeling, rejected such a 
proposal with indignation. No, he paid to the uttermost all 
that he owed, and with the small residue returned to recom- 
mence a laborious life with the energy and content of an ho- 
nourable mind, conscious of having performed a duty, even 
though it were accomplished at the expense of his own interest, 
and knowing that he had still a friend in his heavenly Father, 
who would alike judge him and all men. 

To speak of my mother is a task long, difficult, and painful. 
The contrast in the characters of my parents is indeed so re- 
markable, that I must suffer my mind to dwell awhile upon the 
remembrance of my father's virtue and gentleness before me- 
mory snatches me back to those days of sorrow which marked 
the morning of my life. Prepare, Silvio, for a sad recital. 
But may be, ere thou hast scarcely listened to my history, thou 
wilt exclaim : — " If such clouds had not darkened the exis- 
tence of Guido Sorelli, would he have confided in his God, 
and pursued the path of virtue ?" 



CHAPTER III. 



Perhaps not!— why perhaps ?— decidedly not ! Had I been 
less miserable, I had loved virtue less, and become perhaps my 
own vain idol, attributing to my sole merit the little good of 
which I am capable in the world. The ways of God are just 
and true ; with humility I acknowledge them. I have bent 
and still mourn beneath the chastening hand of the Lord ; but 
His burthen has never been heavier than I could bear, for I have 



MY CONFESSIONS. 

ever felt the smile of a Father beaming upon my soul through 
the stern frown of a God. 

" I know, O Lord, that thy judgments are right, and that 
thou of very faithfulness hast caused me to be troubled." 

I have never known a mother's love, nor can I conceive its 
extent. From my earliest years my mother imagined she 
perceived in me the germs of a proud and overbearing charac- 
ter. Being naturally hasty, not to say imperious, it was her 
will that all within her sphere of power should be possessed of 
a meek and humble spirit ; and, when provoked, nothing dis- 
armed her wrath but humility and silence. 

Cleofe, my eldest sister, of whom I shall often have occasion 
to speak, like myself, had not tears to oppose to the harsh treat- 
ment of the severest of mothers. From our cradle, Cleofe and I 
had evinced for each other the tenderest affection : the same spi- 
rit of independence seemed to animate us both, and which, so 
ill understood by our mother, had been implanted in us by 
nature, and was therefore innate and irresistible. Be that as 
it may, Silvio must have guessed already that Cleofe and Guido, 
scarcely considered in the light of her own offspring by their 
mother, became the unfortunate objects against whom she 
levelled all the poignancy of her severity. " Each family has 
its rebellious member, its evil subject/' she would often say to 
me, but added, " I will break thy spirit, or thou shalt be no 
longer my son ! y> 

To detail my sufferings minutely from the age of five to that 
of sixteen, would be a painful task— so painful that I fear my 
spirit would be scarcely equal to the recital. I shall therefore 
recall but a few circumstances sufficient to make known my 
character at that period of existence, when the heart, yet inno- 
cent, is open to every impression, and creates to itself a temple 
of happiness, or lays the foundation of its future misery. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER IV. 

The high-minded reader will doubtless shudder at the 
thoughts of a son preparing himself to speak disrespectfully of 
his mother, and perhaps he will obey the suggestions of his 
virtuous heart to throw aside the confessions of this Florentine 
Guido. 

- " To slander the dead is an impiety, " methinks I hear him 
exclaim, t( but to slander a parent, unnatural !" Let him sus- 
pend awhile his judgment. That there is much to censure in 
me I deny not ; but I must not be condemned unheard, and I 
flatter myself I shall at least obtain sympathy by my recital. — 
My mother did not understand me, and it was not for me to 
discover to her the error she had made in judging of my open- 
ing character. Children are seldom capable of duplicity ; their 
words and actions are at once the impulse of the mind and the 
mirror through which it is reflected. Dissimulation is only 
acquired by a contact with the world, and a long association 
with those who habituate themselves to its practice. 

My mother was religious, extremely religious ; but unhappily 
her very limited education subjugated her to the influence of 
many narrow feelings and prejudices. She loved God, and 
feared Him, and she believed that His service required of her 
to humble and prostrate the reed, which from its nature seemed 
born to raise its head aloft. The plan of education she adopted 
for me was founded upon what she imagined to be her duty; and I 
am persuaded that she herself scarcely suffered less in torment- 
ing me, than I did upon whom her punishments were constantly 
inflicted. Her intentions were however right. God has par- 
doned her if she erred, and I am wholly resigned to the chast- 
enings of my youth, though blind as I am, I cannot but regret 
that the beautiful days of childhood were, in my case, 
blighted with sorrow and stifled affection. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER V. 



To pretend to foresee evil inclinations in a child, as do some 
parents, is most dangerous. Be the judgment correct or other- 
wise, the suspicion is sure to alienate by degrees the affections, 
and often to awaken a real antipathy. To watch the develop- 
ment of a child's character, is a mother's first and earliest duty, 
as upon her care depends whether the tender tree incline to 
either side, or if its growth be erect and beautiful. But be- 
sides the difficulty of comprehending the disposition, it requires 
a calm and dispassionate judgment to anticipate the re- 
sult of those defects which at this early age begin to manifest 
themselves. The tares have ever grown, and will ever grow 
together with the grain. To endeavour to uproot them would 
be but to injure the corn, and should be the work of God alone. 
The hand of man must be blessed, and his patience be like that 
of the angels, before he can separate the weed from the ear of 
corn, so that it receive no damage. 

Pride was the first defect which discovered itself in my dis- 
position — the first thorn that sprang up in the stem. I received 
a blow ; and because T thought it unmerited, I wept not ; I did 
more ; I looked in my mother's face with the expression upon 
my infant countenance of a soul that feels it has been wronged. 
Without giving herself time to reflect upon the possibility of my 
innocence of what she chose to designate a crime, or to acknow- 
ledge the extreme severity of her punishment, she only viewed my 
manner of receiving the blow as the proof of a haughty and arro- 
gant character ; and from that moment decided upon the con- 
duct she would for the future pursue towards me ; and thus 
sealed the destiny of the first sixteen years of my life. " Thou 
art born to destruction," she exclaimed, " and I will bend thy 
spirit, or it shall break in the attempt ! " 



MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER VI, 

Firm in the resolution she had adopted, she ceased not to 
watch my every action, and to punish most severely even the 
shadow of an error, even the involuntary faults I committed. 
Fasting was a mode of punishment frequently employed by her, 
and this she termed il baston di bambagia; and so repeated were 
the beatings I received, that I have been compelled in conse- 
quence to keep my bed for days together. Each master was 
desired to treat me with the greatest severity, to employ what- 
ever castigation he pleased for every fault I committed before 
referring me to my mother. Whenever I chanced to do wrong 
at home, the servant who accompanied me to the Scuole Pie, 
was commanded to enter the school-room to proclaim aloud my 
offence, and my mother's request that I should be punished by 
the head master. 

I was then about ten years of age. Well do I recollect upon 
those occasions the old servant's dragging me through the 
streets which intervened between our house and the convent of 
the Scolopi ; for, from the instant we were without the door 
of our house, I began to supplicate, even upon my knees, that 
she would not enter the school or complain of me to the mas- 
ter. My petition was always in vain ; she never once hearkened 
to me. 

The agony of my mind encreased with every step I took 
towards the convent, until at length I despairingly abandoned 
myself to my fate. But scarcely had she opened the door of 
the school-room, to acquit herself of her cruel embassy, than I 
who had felt the prospect of evil with such painful emotion, and 
had even betrayed my terror so far as to humble myself upon 
my knees to a servant in the street, now that it was at hand, 
no longer feared, but felt myself endued with courage to sus- 
tain its severest infliction. 

" Upon thy knees, sir, in the middle of the school ! " ex- 

B 5 



10 MY CONFESSIONS. 

claimed the master upon hearing the complaint. There I re- 
mained for three hours ; but this was the mildest punishment 
he ever inflicted upon me. Often, at the expiration of an hour, 
I have been condemned to receive six or twelve lashes, Some- 
times, with the picture of an ass tied to my neck, accompanied 
by two of my fellow students, who served as guards or keepers, 
I have been sent round to receive the hisses of the superior 
classes ; and not unfrequently have I been compelled to remain 
an hour upon my knees at the street door of the convent, a 
spectacle to all who passed. Amongst the multitude who came 
that way, however, not one ever added to my affliction by smil- 
ing at my disgrace. The boys trembled, and looked sympa- 
thetically towards me, as though I but anticipated them in the 
suffering they might themselves have to undergo sooner or 
later. They were all Florentines, and that is sufficient to ex- 
plain their kind forbearance. Yes, I must render this justice 
to my countrymen, that never have I seen a Florentine smile at 
the misfortunes of another, even when merited by the sufferer. 
Each time that I returned home, I tremblingly awaited some 
fresh accusation to be preferred against me, even though I was 
confident of having acted uprightly ; and the ceremony of 
wishing my mother good morning, was to me such an ordeal 
as a convicted criminal must undergo when about to hear his 
sentence pronounced by the judge. Few indeed were the days, 
when presenting myself before her, that I did not read in her 
countenance a foreboding decree of fasting or beating ; and I 
am quite confident I never saw her smile on me more than three 
times in mv life. 



CHAPTER VII. 



It was my mother's maxim that hunger was the best incen- 
tive for urging children to attend to their studies. My meals 
were, in consequence, always reduced to a scanty allowance, 



MY CONFESSIONS. 1 I 

and I actually suffered the gnawing rigours of hunger for seve- 
ral successive years. 

This principle might possibly have been good, if exercised* 
with moderation ; but employed with unrelaxed severity, as it 
was by my mother, the only effect it had upon the mind of her 
child, was to impress him with a fearful sense of her injustice 
and cruelty. The result of this rigorous privation, was, that 
scarcely a day passed that I did not entreat my schoolfellows to 
bring me bread from their homes. " Bread ! give me bread !" 
I used to say to them, and bread was brought for their famished 
companion. But it was not to be expected that they would al- 
ways listen to my petition without requiring some return of 
service from me ; and the condition became understood at length 
that I should write their tasks for them. Thus, though I pro- 
cured bread, it was sure to be attended with its full accompani- 
ment of sorrow ; for if our master discovered the same errors 
in two exercises, he would not be satisfied until he had found 
out which of the two had copied from the other. I, fearful 
that my daily supply should be cut off, always suffered my 
companion to answer first. He denied it; I dared not contra- 
dict him ; and consequently submitted in silence to the lash he 
ought to have received. The greater crimes for which I have 
to reproach myself at this period, were also the effect of the 
hunger I experienced . We dwelt in a beautiful mansion in the 
Via San Gallo> to which was attached a very large garden, 
There I used to wander whenever I could escape the watchful 
eye of the Argus of our house — an old servant much attached 
to her mistress, who generally held my arms when my mother 
beat me, and otherwise assisted in my persecution— and then, 
ripe or unripe, I would strip the trees of their fruit, to satisfy 
my cravings. Not four-and-twenty hours elapsed before my 
mother had discovered the theft from the appearance of the tree; 
it seemed as if not only the fruit, but the very leaves themselves had 
been marked by her. Re-entering the house, pale with anger, and 
seating herself with her accustomed dignity, she commanded 
all her children to appear before her ; I was the last to present 



12 MY CONFESSIONS, 

myself, for my conscience smote me as being the guilty one ; 
this conviction paralyzed my powers. What a spectacle ! what 
a moment of terror for me ! The beautiful face of my mother — = 
for she was beautiful — never have I seen a fairer countenance, 
nor can I forget the splendour of her eyes — was turned on me, 
and in her penetrating glance I felt she had already guessed my 
secret crime ; and there too I might read my sentence before it 
was uttered. The other children who surrounded her bore 
upon their countenances the serenity of innocence, and all, ex- 
cept Cleofe, stood before her with the profoundest humility, 
their eyes bent upon the ground. In vain I directed my glance 
throughout the little assembly upon my entrance in the hope 
of detecting in one of my brothers a confusion which might 
encourage me to deny the theft I had committed. All were 
cold and calm ; no other eye met mine, save that of Cleofe, 
which, nobly raised from the earth, rested upon me with the 
compassion of a friend — a sister — an angel ! 

All that had passed within me, every look, every movement 
had been already detected by the scrutinizing eye of my mother, 
so that scarcely had I looked at her ere I exclaimed : "Yes, my 
mother, / am guilty! " I feared less the infliction of her sen- 
tence than its expectation, although the former was always se- 
vere — always cruel ; and hunger, with which I was constantly 
tormented, became at last a demon so powerful, that few were 
the instances in which I resisted its temptation ; and never did 
it succeed without consigning me to a fearful punishment. 



CHAPTER VIII. 



I advanced in age, and each passing year but added to the 
sense of the misery of my existence. Had man inspired me 
with the love of God in those days of sorrow ? No ; I even 
became disgusted with prayer ; for we were compelled by ray 
mother to engage in it for hours ; and thus I was deprived of 
that important time I should have otherwise devoted to pre- 



MY CONFESSIONS. 13 

paring my lessons for my numerous masters ; and, in consequence, 
have been spared many a beating and many an epithet of derision. 
Yet the love of God was in my heart, and like a gentle' - 
flame, tempered the heavy chill which my mother's want of 
affection had laid upon my soul, inspired me with courage to 
bear with my sufferings, and taught me to rely upon my God. 
There was a chapel belonging to our mansion ; and hither I 
used often to bend my steps alone. Throwing myself upon 
my knees, how have I prayed to God that he would make me 
virtuous or take me from this world of sorrow. Hour after 
hour have I passed weeping and praying ; and the comfort I 
ever derived from those moments would be scarcely under- 
stood by any, save those who have felt the presence of God, 
and have sought their earthly Paradise in communing with 
him. " La priere est si necessaire, et la source de tant de 
Mens, que Vdme qui a trouve ce tresor, ne peut sempecher d'y 
revenir, des qu'elle est laissee a elle-meme. — Fenelon. 

It is possible that we may have passed through long seasons 
of disappointed hope, we may have presented our petitions and 
carried our prayer continually to God, and watched and waited 
during weeks and months and years, and the answer not 
come. Notwithstanding this, I affirm that the answer shall 
come, and I would say to my readers, " Hope on : trust in 
God, that He will redeem his pledge. He hath said it. No , 
one word that God hath spoken can possibly fail, till a/Zhath 
been fulfilled." 

" He hath been always mindful of his covenant and promise: 
that he made to a thousand generations !" 

But to this sweet consolation often succeeded such a mental 
darkness, that I have felt, alike persecuted by man and 
abandoned by God. It was in such a moment as this, that 
feeling unable any longer to bear up against the weight of my 
sorrows, I concealed myself in the darkest corner of the house 
and violently compressing ray little hands, I inflicted several 
blows upon my breast, in the hope that I might become ill 
from the effect — and die. 



14 Mr CONFESSIONS. 

But my delirium was unproductive of the effect I desired ; 
so that disgusted with all around me, I sank into an apathy, 
which rendered me alike insensible to every thing. I cared 
not for any kind of study. 1 was always punished, and was 
always anticipating punishment, until, at length, even that 
became indifferent to me, 

This state of mind had lasted for about twelve months, 
when one morning, Bertinelli the head-master of the Scolopi, 
sent for me into his pulpit. This Bertinelli had always been 
the severest of my masters ; but God chose him to be the 
instrument of my preservation. 

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon ; and all the 
scholars were assembled. Scarcely had I presented myself 
before him, than he took my hand, and drawing me 
affectionately towards him, said in a low voice almost in my 
ear, " What a shame it is, my dear Guido, that a boy like 
yourself, to whom God has vouchsafed talents and abilities, 
should waste thus ungratefully the gifts of heaven, and chose 
rather to merit degrading punishments than to emulate your 
companions in their career of study and virtue ! Rouse your- 
self, I conjure you ! Shake off this lethargy from your mind ; 
and believe me, my dear Guido, you will yet find happiness 
amongst men, and protection from your God !" 

During this address I had kept my eyes fixed on the ground ; 
but as I thought I heard the voice of Bertinelli become tremu- 
lous as he proceeded, and gradually sink into a weaker tone, I 
raised them and looked in my master's face. The eyes of 
Bertinelli were filled with tears ! The sight overpowered me ! 
My heart became softened, and opened to receive the counsel 
so affectionately given. I burst into tears, and, falling at 
his feet before the whole of my companions, gave him a 
solemn promise that I would alter the course of my life. 

Oh ! sweet accents of kindness and of persuasion, what do I 
not owe to you ? What had been the termination of my 
miserable existence, if, without your intervention, I had per- 
sisted in hardening my heart and wilfully blinding myself to 



MY CONFESSIONS. 15 

every sentiment of good will for man, admiration of that which 
is good and virtuous, and gratitude towards God ? What an 
example to parents ! May they learn from my life to employ 
the severity of the rod only as a physician would a desperate 
remedy, the hopelessness of his patient's disease requiring an 
equally desperate measure. I am quite convinced that the most 
successful method of governing a child of an ardent and fiery 
temper is by persuasion and mildness. 



CHAPTER IX. 



And now, my dear Silvio, a ray of light breaks in upon my 
long night of darkness. Life is an ever varying mixture of 
light and shadow. 

" Fortune by turns on all her cup bestows 

Which now with evil, now with good o'erflows •" 

Yes, Silvio, a ray of light did break in upon my existence to 
chase away its darkening shadows ! The unexpected succour 
of heaven, when the heavy hand of misfortune has so pros- 
trated us, that the anxious mind can see no way of escape, is 
so beautiful a proof of the existence of a God, the love of a 
heavenly parent, and the dignity of the soul, that our past sor- 
rows are no longer remembered as such, but we rather bless 
Him, who has employed the hand of man as the instrument of 
our affliction to restore us by the hand of a God ! Oh ! what 
a beautiful serenity was now diffused over my soul ! what a 
holy calm played round my heart ! what a blessed union did I 
feel of courage and humility, patience and virtue ! Dear 
Silvio, what a heavenly day was that to my feelings ; it was 
the happiest of my life ! But then no heinous sin had yet 
stained my soul : and, although men frowned on me, God 



16 MY CONFESSIONS. 

regarded me not with the severity of a judge, but with the 
tenderness of a Father. 

I returned home. My heart was so light, that an unusual 
joyousness of expression dwelt upon my features. I bounded 
forward to salute my mother, who exclaimed upon seeing me — 
" You are merry, Guido," This you sounded sweetly to my 
ears, uttered by one who always addressed her children with 
Lei, when at all displeased with them. 

" One good fortune is generally accompanied by another,' ' 
whispered my heart, " even as misfortunes seldom travel 
alone. " 

t( Yes, Signora Madre, I am merry," I replied : and, 
throwing myself at her feet, I asked her pardon for my past 
conduct during the last twelve months. " I have promised 
Father Bertinelli to amend," I continued ; (t do you pardon 
me too, my mother ! and I will go into the chapel to pray 
God for his forgiveness and strength to persist in my good 
resolutions." 

My mother smiled. It was the first time she had ever 
smiled upon me. 

She placed her hand affectionately upon my head. " God will 
bless thee, Guido," she said. 

I wept when I heard her use the still more endearing word 
thee in addressing me. I believe she wept also ; but mine 
own eyes were so filled with tears, that I may have been 
deceived. I arose from my knees — kissed her hand — and, 
looking once more upon her, retired into the chapel. 



CHAPTER X. 

It was not long before I quitted the post of '* Pancone,*" 
which I occupied at Bertinelli' s school. I learned then to com- 

*The lowest rank in any class at " San Giovanni-no.' 1 ' 



MY CONFESSIONS. 17 

pose Latin verses ; and, studying Cornelius Nepos, Ovid and the 
Mythology, gained by a rapid stride, the title of "Tribune" In 
a short time Ialtained a yet more distinguished elevation. I 
heard myself proclaimed " Emperor/ 1 was invested with the 
insignia of my dignity, and actually beheld my fellow stu- 
dents deferentially rise as the exclamation " Surgite omnes f" 
announced my entrance into the school. 

They indeed seemed lost in astonishment, as though a 
miracle had been accomplished. Yet why should they have 
been astonished ? Their surprise, however, had the good effect of 
preventing any rebellion that might have arisen amongst 
them ; so that I had leisure for awhile to taste in peace my new 
dignity, which I enjoyed with all the exultation of a mind 
conscious of meriting its reward. But the calm was of short 
duration. Perhaps had it lasted, the very burthen of dignity 
would have deprived it of its charm for me, and I too might have 
discovered that my throne was but a wooden one — like the 
place I had occupied as " Pancone." My fellow-students rose all 
at once against me, led on by the two next to me in rank. 
Happily for me, I was countenanced by Bertinelli himself, who 
would not suffer more than one adversary to assail me at a 
time. Thus I was enabled to collect my whole powers against 
this single antagonist : and whenever worsted, the next 
moment saw me triumph the more gloriously from my 
defeat. My repeated victories intimidated the greater part of 
my opponents, who at length became very limited in number : 
but with the few in each class I ever maintained a friendly emu- 
lation during my stay at the Scolopi. Not a week passed 
in which I was not compelled to defend or dispute my throne 
with another : yet, alternately a conqueror or conquered, and 
never an insignificant rival to my fellow students, we esteemed 
each other sincerely, and that esteem, which is the basis of 
friendship, united us in the closest bonds. Had any one 
observed the eagerness with which each corrected the other in 
his repetition from memory — before the judge — of his five 
hundred Latin verses, he might have pronounced their mutual 



18 



MY CONFESSIONS. 



hatred to have been most profound. But our contention had no 
deeper root than that of the actor, who, the " Emperor" of an 
evening, feigns the bitterest hatred for him. whom, in his 
part, he is to hurl from his throne. The contest ended ; a hearty 
shake of the hand proved our mutual good fellowship, a 
feeling we ever preserved when the school hour was over. 
But, oh, how different for the poor <: Emperor"'' was the scene 
enacted at home to that at the convent ! A priest, appointed 
to conduct me home, awaited me at the assigned hour at the 
door; when arrived there, instead of making me repeat what I had 
learned in the day and which I had been commanded to do, he 
inflicted upon me other and entirely different studies, 
which served but to bewilder my brain, 

He was the severest task-master I had ever known. He 
appeared to derive a singular pleasure from cruelly beating me. 
Poor "Emperor !" I marvel that I have survived the perpetual 
infliction of his heavy blows. 

Hunger, stripes, and unceasing invective were the Dei 
Penati, rather the Furies, that awaited me at home ; whilst 
at San Giovanmno, I obtained honour, the friendship of the 
few, the respect and esteem of all. M Surgiie frames /" at 
these words my soul seemed to cast aside its wretched garb of 
sorrow and oppression ! That I was enabled to contrast this 
pleasing reverie with the bitterness of the past hour, alone 
saved me perhaps from sulking beneath my persecution. 



CHAPTER XL 



It was customary* for my brothers, and sisters, and myself to 
assemble every morning and evening at prayers. Our devo- 
tions consisted of a 'Pater/ an 'Ave,' and ' Gloria,' which 
repeated a hundred times, comprehended all our religious in- 
structions, The Bible was utterly unknown to us, and had it 



MY CONFESSIONS. 19 

not been that each year brought its Good Friday and Easter 
Sunday, scarcely should we have known that Christ had died 
for us, and risen again for our salvation. Feast-days beheld me 
regularly at church, where I listened to the Mass without dis- 
tinctly understanding its import. From the commencement to 
the conclusion of the service, I was compelled to remain upon 
my knees ; and were it ever my mischance to turn my head to 
the right or the left, a smart cuff was sure to remind me of my 
transgression, and restore it to its proper position. I was 
wearied by the monotonous length of the prayers ; I repeated 
them only as a task, and that an unpleasing one, insomuch 
that, whilst I remained with my family, I cannot recall having 
ever repeated the Lord's prayer sincerely and fervently. No 
one would imagine that so essential a branch in the education 
of youth should have been so little understood, or so much ne- 
glected by my mother ; nor should I have deserved much cen- 
sure had I taken a distaste to religion and prayer altogether. 
But it was not so ; I abhorred the discipline, not the doctrine, 
the distinction between which I was not then able to appreciate. 
When alone, and with the feeling that I had a petition to offer 
to my God, prayer was to me an ecstasy ; it seemed to me 
a moment of beatitude, Oh, how lovely is the prayer of a 
soul unstained by heinous sin ! How different is the 
tear of remorse ! It was God who inspired me with 
the desire for prayer . . . that best gift which the Creator 
can bestow upon His creature ; and often as I have had recourse 
to it, it has never seemed to me in vain ; for my petition was 
either granted, or, if unaccepted, I always afterwards was com- 
pelled to acknowledge my prayer to have been absurd, and that 
its accordance would not have been conducive to my happi- 
ness. 

I do not remember by what accident I chanced one day to 
burn a hole in a new coat. It was at that period the 
greatest misfortune that could have happened to me ; for twice 
in the day my mother regularly examined my apparel, in which, 



20 MY CONFESSIONS. 

if she detected the smallest stain of ink or any other injury, I 
was severely punished. 

The coat was then quite new ; what was to be done ? It 
was evening, and the inspection for that day was over ; there- 
fore I had the whole night to devise some method for repairing 
my misfortune. I went to bed ; Silvio, you will imagine I did 
not feel much disposed to sleep ; I could not. The more I re- 
flected upon what had befallen me, the more did terror seem to 
overpower me, until at length I became overwhelmed with 
despair. 

I should undoubtedly have been extremely ill, but God who 
ever watches over His creatures, and will not suffer them to be 
afflicted beyond their powers of endurance, inspired me with a 
desire to pray. I threw myself upon my knees, and commenced 
repeating, an infinity of times, my Pater Noster and Salve Re- 
gina, until, wearied with their monotony, I addressed some 
prayers of my own dictation to my guardian angel, and to as 
many saints as I could recall to my memory. Can you believe 
it, Silvio ? I addressed to them no less a petition than that 
they would intercede with God that He would work a miracle 
for me ; in short, that the rent in my garment should be made 
whole again by the morrow. 

With what fervour did I pray the livelong night ! with how 
many tears did I water my pillow ! Had not the peril in which 
I stood, when my mother should discover my accident been a 
sufficient incitement for my continuing in prayer during the 
whole night, what I had now demanded was quite sufficient to 
stimulate me to the greatest energy. I had prayed the saints 
to intercede for me with the Most High to accord me a mira- 
cle ; for that it would be a miracle I could not conceal from my- 
self. The impression left upon my mind of the saints, whose 
lives I had been accustomed to read aloud to my mother, had 
probably fired my brain, and inspired me with courage to pre- 
fer such a demand, and that too with full confidence in its being 
granted me. Day began to dawn : if the length and fervour of 



MY CONFESSIONS. 21 

my prayers, or the tears I had shed, had not wearied me, I was 
now compelled to conclude my devotions, from want of matter 
to continue them. I had done all of which humanity is capable, 
I had prayed with sincerity, and with a perfect reliance in m v 
God. I had now then but to stretch forth my hand, take my 
coat from the corner of the bed, and examine it. I did so, and 
found that it was — as I had left it ! 

" What a disappointment V 9 would all exclaim but Silvio; 
" what a moment of suffering" for the unhappy Guido \" 

But it was not so. A complete, though inexplicable tran- 
quillity took possession of my mind. I replaced my coat, went 
to bed, and fell into a quiet sleep, which perfectly recompensed 
me for the fatigue I had undergone. 

And here commences the miracle, doubt it who will. In this 
moment did Providence show to me that His w r ays are not our 
ways, and that God can ever deliver us from peril, though by 
means unforeseen by our finite comprehension. 

I awoke and felt tranquil, as when I slept ; dressed myself, 
and before going to school, went to bid my mother good mor- 
ning, who, as usual, duly scrutinized my apparel. 

But she did not detect the accident that had befallen me. A 
single thread that had escaped the fire, held the button- hole 
together ; I could still insert the button, and thus hide for a 
while the damage sustained. But this thread could not 
last long ; it continued to do so however for about eight days, 
and then it broke. 

Still I did not experience the slightest disquietude ; the mira- 
cle continued! Nothing could any longer conceal from my 
mother my unlucky accident, which in her mind, I feared 
would assume the character of a crime. 

" How is this sir ?" she exclaimed upon discovering it. I 
related the accident simply, upon which, tapping me gently upon 
the shoulder, "You are a thoughtless one,''' she said, " but go 
to school, and be careful that such a thing does not occur 
again." 

This unusual moderation from my mother told me that my 



22 MY CONFESSIONS. 

prayer had been heard ! The storm was dispersed at the mo- 
ment of bursting, and thus was the miracle accomplished, not 
by the ways of man, but of God ! 



CHAPTER XII. 



In proportion as my heart was now so painfully estranged 
from my mother, my affection for my father seemed to acquire 
new strength, and Cleofe became every day still more the ob- 
ject of my love, 

I rarely however heard my father's voice. Indeed, seldom 
dared he raise it, or ever venture to contradict my mother on 
any subject. Woe to him if a glance or a word betrayed his 
pitying feeling toward me, or if he ever manifested the slight- 
est disapproval of his wife's method of treating his children. 
His indeed was but the shadow of a father's authority, and the 
only particular in which he assumed the character of a master 
in his own house, was in the act of providing a certain sum of 
money every Saturday, for the expenditure of the family. But, 
although my father had no voice in his wife's management, his 
presence was always in some measure a check upon her extreme 
severity. It was to us like the sun, which, long obscured by 
clouds and darkness, again emerges to reanimate the heart and 
restore the drooping spirit. With the exception of Sunday, 
however, we rarely saw him during the week. He always left 
home very early in the morning to attend mass, and afterwards 
remained in business until a very late hour in the evening. 

It was an unusual favour indeed when he was permitted 
to take me with him to church on Sunday, and from thence, 
after chocolate, to walk with him. 

To merit it, I must have performed prodigies during the 
week ; but as I grew older, and, from the progress 
I made in my studies, became the subject of much praise from 



MY CONFESSION'S. %$ 

my various masters to my mother, this favour was more frequently 
granted ; and it was at length extended to permitting me, 
every ^Yednesday evening — the half-holiday — after the mid-day 
school hour, to join my father on the Ponte Vecchio where 
stood several of his warehouses. 

My father loved me tenderly ; my affection for him was un- 
bounded, and he always seemed to receive me with as much 
pleasure as I felt in seeking him. He took the kind- 
est interest in the history of my school adventures ; the chal- 
lenge, the defeat, then my reeovery, my victory, and the ho- 
nours I received, were alike listened to with pleasure by him, 
whilst with no less delight he heard me read the tasks I had to 
prepare, my compositions, my sonnets, my anacreontic odes, 
and my other juvenile rhapsodies ! But when at the expiration 
of a year, I ventured to undergo an examination to pass to a 
higher class — mostbovs remained two vearsin the same — and sue- 
ceeded, he actually shed tears of gratified affection, and pro- 
mised either to give me a handsome present, or take me with 
him for a week to Leghorn. How shall I describe the 
anxiety I endured previously to my examination ? It was the 
first time so great a treat had been offered me. To travel 
two days in a carriage upon ground unknown to me — to 
arrive at Leghorn, and then behold the sea, of which I had 
read and heard so much ; and yet more, to exchange for a 
whole week, my state of slavery, hunger and anger, for the 
sweets of affection, abundance, and smiles, seemed a climax 
to which even the hopes and desires of my young heart had 
never aspired ! It indeed appeared so much beyond my at- 
tainment, that I prepared myself almost hopelessly for 
the difficult examination, and with the calmness which 
they alone experience, who, to accomplish a great end, 
labor to the extent of their power, whilst the mind reposes 
upon a settled conviction, that " what must be, must be ! " 
At length the day for our examination arrived, and we pre- 
sented ourselves before our judges. Amongst the candidates, 



24 MY CONFESSIONS. 

who amounted to fourteen, only five were deemed worthy of 
promotion, and behold Guido of the number ! 



CHAPTER XIII. 
If— 

" Anticipation is an evil still, 

More bitter than appears the present ill, " 



the expectation of a positive happiness is in itself a feeling of 
ecstasy no language can describe. Our most exquisite sense of 
enjoyment consists in the anticipation of what we desire. The 
delight of every happiness in this world is concentrated in the 
expectation. The instability of human affairs, and our own 
changeable nature often blunt the keen feeling of happiness we 
have hoped for in the possession of a desired object if they do 
not even extinguish it altogether ! I shall never forget the 
reply made me lately by an English gentleman possessed of 
very superior talents and of an exemplary Christian cha- 
racter. 

In one ofthe long conversations which my intimacy withhimhas 
often procured me, he told me, that many years before he had 
obtained the hand of the virtuous and elegant lady, who is now 
his wife, he had admired and loved her as a sister. Many 
years of matrimony had not abated the praises he still seemed 
to lavish upon her ; and I, one day, asked him if marriage were 
really that state of supreme felicity I had pourtrayed it in my 
own mind ? 

" Guido !" he replied, " believe me, when I assure you, 
that, during the course of seventeen years, never have I once 
repented marrying her who is my wife : and I believe it im- 
possible to have found a woman more amiable and more ac- 



MY CONFESSIONS. 25 

coraplished than herself. Still, Guido ! believe me, matrimony 
is but the dispelling of one of those illusive dreams, which for 
ever dazzle the mind of man !" 



CHAPTER XIV. 



•■- 



If, to think perpetually, to talk of nothing else but of my 
journey to Leghorn, and to watch Cleofe occupied in preparing 
my little valise, were a happiness to me, the arrival of the 
wished for moment of departure was joy supreme, and, in a 
kind of ecstasy, I entered the carriage. Two merchants, inti- 
mate friends of my father, accompanied us, and we commenced 
our journey. Having arrived at the gate of San Frediano, 
one of our companions, a merry and amiable man, lifting his 
hat from his head, exclaimed, " Adieu to thought ! Farewell 
dark care ! until I meet thee again at Florence ; and do thou 
say the like, Guido I" he added, addressing me particularly : and 
truly did I follow his advice as w T ell as the rest of my 
companions ; but, perhaps, none of the party so sponta- 
neously or so heartily as myself. My young days had not 
yet been blighted by any of those sins, the memory of which 
corrodes the heart. Such was the buoyancy of my feelings, 
that even the remembrance of my unmerited sufferings was 
lost in the sea of content, which seemed to play around 
me. I abandoned myself entirely to the joy awakened by 
this promised feast of novelty, and abandoning at San Fre- 
diano all recollections of Florence, I forgot my mother, I 
forgot Cleofe, I forgot myself. I quitted the gate, a 
new and happy spirit, like the soul — if I may be permitted the 
simile — when, freed from its prison-house, radiant with 
joy, escapes to its destined home in Paradise. 

Every object of interest was pointed out to me, in our route 
to Leghorn, where we arrived on the following day about two 

c 



£S MY CONFESSIONS. 

hours before sunset. It was the month of September and the 
weather was magnificent. Having deposited our luggage in 
the Hotel in Via Grande, my father proposed our walking 
immediately to the sea-side. While we were still some dis- 
tance from it, one of our friends recommended that a 
bandage should be placed over my eyes, not to be removed until 
our arrival at the sea, in order that I might obtain the first 
unbroken view of that vast element from the best point of 
observation. 

I was blind-folded accordingly, conducted to the pier, and 
placed in the situation they thought the best calculated to ren- 
der the sight imposing. " Guido, behold the sea!'' ex- 
claimed all my companions at once, suddenly withdrawing my 
bandage. 

"And is this then the sea?" I muttered involuntarily. I 
stood motionless, and, for more than a quarter of an hour, was 
unable to reply to any of the questions with which they over- 
whelmed me. 

Ah, Silvio, what a disappointment ! The sea had been re- 
presented to my imagination as an ideal expanse, immense, 
unlimited, save by the world's own confines. I had pictured it 
to myself as an unbounded surface of water, exhibiting a perfect 
plain when not agitated by the wind, so that the eye could be 
carried into space immeasurable over its bosom — that eye which 
can discover the stars at so immense a distance from earth. I 
had supposed, that, having reached the port of Leghorn, I should 
contemplate, from the pier's height, this imaginary spectacle of 
illimitable expanse, whilst every island, between India and 
America, would stand out visible in the distance. 

When I beheld how bounded was the horizon, at how small a 
distance the heavens and the waters blended into each other, I 
could not help exclaiming, in the fullness of my disappoint- 
ment — " This then is the sea ! How very, very small !" 

My father and my friends were much entertained at my 
expressions ; and, calling a boatman, we stepped into his little 
vessel, and sailed about three miles from the port. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 27 

The whole scene was as strikingly beautiful as it was full 
of novelty to me. Italy's sun was now descending, in all 
its fading glory, into the bosom of the ocean, whilst its*: 
last lingering reflection yet trembled upon the bright emerald 
surface, and the soft zephyrs played murmuringly around us. 
The crowded aspect of the port, with its commodious pier ; 
innumerable vessels, animated by the noise and bustle of 
the sailors ; the multitude of new faces, all wearing an ex- 
pression of content and activity ; but, above all, the anxious 
looks of kindness and interest evinced in the countenances 
of my father and his friends, who were intently watching 
for some burst of admiration on my part, at length produced 
a due influence upon my mind. My young heart, which had 
shrunk within itself at the first great disappointment this 
world had cast upon its path, again opened to happiness and 
enjoyment, and Guido became reconciled to the expanseless- 
ness of the sea. 



CHAPTER XV. 



My heart had so long panted to taste the sweets of Plea- 
sure, that when, for the first time, she presented herself before 
me, and under so fair an aspect, 1 became immediately 
enamoured of the beautiful idol, and memory offered 
no unclosed cell — no opening passage to the soul, through 
which either the grave or the gay remembrances of the past, 
or the hopes or fears of the future, could intrude themselves to 
disturb the sweet illusion of the delicious dream. 

Every moment, every pulsation, nay, time itself, seemed con- 
centrated in these eight days, which were to me a little eternity. 

During this short period, my very soul sat at the festive 
board of this beautiful vision, and quaffed the flowing nectar 
from her cup of innocent pleasure, whilst the happy smile, 

c 2 



28 MY CONFESSIONS. 

which for ever dwelt upon my lips, bespoke me no unwilling 
captive to her chains. 

I could have concentrated into one the moments which com- 
posed this week : but their history, so dear to my remem- 
brance, would but weary in recital. I shall therefore content 
myself with assuring thee, Silvio, that they were days of real 
enjoyment. I then tasted joy, unmixed with bitterness — hap- 
piness, which not even the assurance of its fleeting nature, 
and our speedy return to Florence, could disturb. 

We reached the environs of that city about three o'clock in 
the afternoon of Monday, and, while we were at some distance* 
the great bell of Florence could be heard mingling, at in- 
tervals, its deep and solemn tones with the more merry peals 
from the neighbouring churches. 

" Guido!" exclaimed my father, suddenly, " look at the 
Cupola"* 

" The Cupola /" I echoed ; and, thrusting my head through 
the carriage window, I once more beheld that beautiful struc- 
ture ; and, with, the recognition, a tide of anguish rushed 
into my heart, like that I had but eight days before so 
easily shaken from me, and forgotten at the gate of San Fre- 
diano. 

What gratified feeling ought not the sight of this Cupola to 
have awakened within me! I was born in its vicinity, and 
Florence was my native city ; and where is the heart which 
loves not instinctively its native knd ? 

I shuddered, as I now looked upon the Cupola, for, with it 
came the certainty, that I was but a short distance from home. 

Scarcely had we re-entered Florence, when an accident befel 
me. One of our travelling companions was treasurer at the 
Teatro del Cocomero. It was now about six o'clock in the 



* The famous cupola of Brunellesco is one of the greatest wonders in 
Italy, if not in the world. It exceeds in height the most elevated building 
in Florence, and is the first and the most beautiful object, that presents 
itself to the eye of the traveller. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 29 

afternoon and the doors already open. He desired to alight 
there, as the theatre was situated within a very few paces of our 
house. We accordingly stopped, and our friend, after descending*" 
from the carriage, turned from us, for a moment, to speak to the 
coachman. He then bade us farewell, for we had still waited 
for him, and the door was shut with violence ; but a piercing 
cry soon recalled him to discover, that, having carelessly put my 
hand out of the carriage, it had been shut in with the door, 
It was immediately opened, and my hand extricated from 
its agonised position ; but what then followed I know not ; 
for I fell back in the carriage and fainted. 

What my mother's feelings were when she saw me borne in, 
in the arms of my friends, and laid upon a couch in a swoon, 
from which I for some time resisted every effort to recover 
me, I never dared ask her, nor did she ever speak of them to 
me, Here let me pause. From the day of my birth to that 
upon which I fainted, constitutes a period in my life, to which my 
mind will always recur as to a state of comparative innocence ; 
whilst, from the moment I recovered from my swoon to that 
in which I address thee, Silvio, are alike comprehended my 
years of folly, delusion, error and repentance. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

As the body bears within itself the seeds of decay and 
death, which imperceptibly hasten its inevitable doom, with 
each pulsation of the heart, so the soul of man, from the day of 
his birth, evinces a principle of perversity, which threatens to 
degrade him from the angelic nature, stamped upon his image, 
to the level of the brute. 

The love of God was at this period but little in my heart, 
and my lips were closed to prayer. It was therefore, not from the 
exalted desire of pleasing God, nor from a high sense of duty, 



30 MY CONFESSIONS. 

that I made so rapid a progress in my studies. It was merely 
to gratify my extreme pride and self-love. 

I had lent an ear to the discourse of a treacherous com- 
panion — the poison of whose words had entered my soul, and 
innocence fled — fled for ever. 

" Can it be, that a youth, of your talents, believes in Jesus 
Christ ? Know you not that it is only fools who hold such 
a faith ? Renounce such absurdity, or who think ye will look 
upon you as a young man of spirit ?" 

Such, or to the same effect, were the words of my associate. 

The devil always commences his temptation by flattery, and 
rarely does he fail of success by that means ; for, few are they 
who do not overvalue themselves ; fewer still they who sus- 
pect the praise of others to be exaggerated ; and seldom do we 
meet with men, who, conscious of their own nothingness, 
avow themselves and their endowments to be alike the boon of 
Heaven, whose single breath is sufficient to dispossess them 
of its gifts, 

" Must I then be pronounced an idiot/' I reflected, " if I 
continue a Christian ; and be deemed a man of spirit, only 
upon the terms of becoming an infidel V I had no alternative, 
and became an infidel ! 



CHAPTER XVII. 



As soon as we renounce religion and the service of our 
Maker, a dark veil seems to intervene between ourselves and 
heaven ; whilst, on the other hand, a path strewn with flowers 
seems to open to our view, disclosing in its vista a long series 
of years of enjoyment and worldly happiness. 

A transgression of the eighth commandment was my first step 
in that path which threatens destruction. 

It was usual with me, as I have already said, to visit my 



MY CONFESSIONS. 31 

father's counting-house, every Wednesday, after my noon- 
day's lesson, whence, after having remained about an hour, I 
returned home. It chanced one day, my father was obliged to 1 * 
go to another of his warehouses on the " Ponte Vec- 
chio " to seek for an article much in demand by customers. It 
happened that all the workmen were absent ; and, thus, I was 
left alone in the counting-house. 

Scarcely had my father closed the door, when the thought 
struck me, that I would open the casket in his bureau, before 
which I was seated, " I will merely open it ;" thus ended 
the suggestion of the devil — for 

" Subtle he needs must be who could seduce 
" Angels !" 

Not less rapid than the temptation was the warning voice of 
my guardian angel, who would have withheld me : Nee oculus 
in carta, nee manus in area /" but the evil one triumphed over 
my better spirit. 

I opened the bureau, and beheld a number of boxes, filled 
with rings, pearls, and other articles of value. 

I shuddered at the sight, and felt as though I had already 
committed a crime. A perturbation, I had never before ex- 
perienced, took possession of my heart and bewildered my 
sight. I closed the casket : but the next instant re- opened it. 
The feeling, that I had already sinned in looking into the 
bureau, urged me not to forego the actual perpetration of the 
theft. I took a gold ring, put it in my pocket, and again 
closed the casket. 

The eye of a clear-sighted parent can generally read, in the 
countenance of his child, the first crime he commits. Not so 
my father ! his feelings were too pure — too angelic ! He 
knew not how to suspect in others what he had never dreamed 
of committing himself. 

With the ring in my pocket I felt bewildered. I trembled 
from head to foot, and was unable to speak. I stammered, 
and became pale as death; but my father, suspecting 



$2 MY CONFESSIONS. 

nothing, told me the hour had expired for my remaining 
with him, and, giving me an affectionate embrace, sent me 
home. 

What a reproach was this embrace to my heart ! — a heart, 
that had now for the first time abandoned virtue ! But the 
devil, who is always at hand to re -kindle the torch until the 
crime be consummated, soon stifled this emotion, and scarcely 
had I left the warehouse, than my thoughts reverted to the 
intended disposal of the ring. I had no sooner quitted my 
father's presence than I seemed to acquire new courage. " I 
am a thief!" said I to myself, " and now I must collect all 
my powers to support my new character.' ' 

Returning from the warehouse, I now determined to pro- 
ceed to the Ghetto — the Jews quarter at Florence, and 
entering the most obscure shop I could see, accosted a 
Jew, whose countenance appeared the most promising for my 
purpose. 

" Have you anything to sell? ,, — was his demand, 'ere I 
could open my mouth. 

" Yes !" I replied, " a gold ring." 

•' Come in then and we will examine it," said he, shutting 
the door carefully after him. 

I took the ring from my pocket. He weighed it, re-weighed 
it, and then submitted it to the test of aquafortis. 

" How much do you want for it ?" 

" Give me what you will." 

" It is not worth anything : the gold is bad — but I will give 
you a paolo" 

I asked him for two, but no ; it was not his method of 
dealing ; at length I agreed to receive a paolo for what I knew 
was worth sixty ! 

This ill-omened paolo was spent the next day in trash and 
comfits ; and I, well pleased with my first essay in this new 
game, prepared myself for a second throw on the next 
Wednesday. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 33 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

The first evil step having been taken, the second cost me 
scarcely a pang : and thus sin, which, at its first aspect, over- 
whelmed me with horror, had already become familiar and even 
pleasing to me. On the following Wednesday, I abstracted 
another gold ring, and presented myself before the roguish 
Jew. I demanded sixty paoli for it. He first offered me 
four ; then five ; and, at length, five and a half. I had become 
so expert a thief, that, indignant at his offering me five paoli 
and a half, for what I knew was worth eighty at the least, I 
refused to part with the ring. 

" Return to -morrow, " said he, as he saw me about to with- 
draw, " and then we will renew the bargain." 

I returned home, sat down at my little table and commenced 
my studies. The theme, I was then engaged upon, was the pane- 
gyric of Americus Vesputius, and I could not have been in a 
better vein for my task. I began ; and three hours after, upon 
my father's return, I had written an incredibly long exercise. 

" My father!" I exclaimed, as soon as he entered, "come 
and let me read to you my panegyric of Americus Ves- 
putius." 

" I have no time at present ;" he replied in a dry tone, quite 
unusual with him. My mother was in the room ; I looked in 
my father's face. He was pale and serious ; and when his 
eyes encountered mine, they were turned hastily from me. A 
few minutes after, he approached. 

" Guido," he said, " carry these liquor glasses up stairs." 

" Nay, father," replied I, "let my brother take them ; for 
when I am interrupted in my writing, it is so difficult to re- 
sume the thread of the subject." 

" No ;" said he, in a higher tone, " it is my wish that you 
should carry them." 

C 5 



34 MY CONFESSIONS. 

I made no reply, but my heart whispered "Thou art dis- 
covered, Guido !'' — and too true a monitor did it prove. 

From the first day, my father had missed the article I had pur- 
loined ; and, knowing no one but myself could have had access 
to his bureau, he was at length compelled to suspect his own 
child. He watched my movements, and his suspicions were 
but too fatally verified. 

My father now led the way up-stairs. I followed, but in 
doing so, I slipped into my sleeping apartment, and depo- 
siting my stolen ring between the mattrasses, soon presented 
myself with the liquor glasses in the room in which my 
father awaited me. He placed the lamp upon the table, 
bolted the door, and advanced close to me. 

" Guido, what have you done with my ring ?" — he asked. 

" It is down stairs." 

" Go then, and fetch it." 

I obeyed — took it from its hiding place, and again ascended 
the apartment. My father, after closing the door, took from 
me the ring, which I offered with a countenance I cannot easily 
describe. 

" I have then a thief for my son," he exclaimed ; and, pale 
as death, he fell upon the sofa and burst into an agony of tears. 

That my heart did not break at the sight of those tears ; 
that I did not sink overwhelmed with the blow my mind 
received at viewing this gush of sorrow, was but another indi- 
cation of God's mercy. I fell upon my knees — raised my 
hands to heaven. In vain I attempted to speak. Sobs 
choked my utterance, whilst tears refused to flow. At 
length, I could but murmur — ''Pardon, my father! in the 
name of Heaven, pardon me ! Turn not from your repentant 
child, and I promise never again to commit this fearful sin." 

" My heart is estranged from you, and nothing but the 
most irreproachable and Christian conduct, for many long 
years, can ever restore to you that love which you have for- 
feited. But, I will pray to God to pardon you; and, as a 
proof of my paternal regard, I promise that neither your 



MY CONFESSIONS. 35 

mother, nor any living soul, shall ever know from me how 
much you are fallen. Now return quickly to your room, and 
continue your studies." *> 

I endeavoured to kiss his hand, but he withdrew it with 
dignified severity. In sorrow and self-reproach, I then quitted 
my father's presence, and returned to my studies. 



CHAPTER XIX. 



Theft is a sin so degrading to man, that it uproots all that 
is noble in his nature ; but the robber who violates his own 
home, is of all criminals the basest and the most contemptible ! 

" Whoso robbeth his father or his mother, and saith— It is 
no transgression ; the same is the companion of a destroyer." 

The crime of which I had been guilty admits of no excuse. 
Neither the severity of my mother, nor the hunger I often ex- 
perienced, could, in the slightest degree, have justified so humi- 
liating an action, committed too against a father so worthy 
of my fondest affection. His exemplary sweetness and amia- 
bility served to aggravate my crime, and rendered me still 
more guilty in the sight of God; more odious in mine own eyes ; 
more despicable in those of man ; and most unworthy of so 
excellent a parent. Doubt not, O Silvio, that the con- 
fession of this act of villainy has cost me many a painful 
struggle with my self-love. But, thank God, my better nature 
has triumphed. God knew my crime : men shall know it. 
" He that covereth his sins shall not prosper : but whoso con- 
fesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy" — and may 
youth recollect for their instruction, that neither the pardon of 
my father, my own confession and sincere repentance, nor — by 
the merciful support of heaven— the consciousness of my never 
having again committed that fearful wickedness, can release 
my soul from the weight of humiliation that oppresses it ; and 



86 MY CONFESSIONS. 

whilst memory brings to my mind the recollection of the deed, 
never — never can it aspire to regain that noble and serene 
feeling of self-esteem, which I possessed, before I became guilty 
and wretched. 

Such are the fruits of irreligion ! Such the effects of a head- 
strong spirit ! Such are the flowers gathered from the path 
of Death ! Such was Guido the infidel. Such Guido the 
robber. 

" Ye have ploughed wickedness, ye have reaped iniquity ; 
ye have eaten the fruit of lies, because you did trust in your 
way." 

Most men have within them a strong and sometimes irre- 
sistible propensity to a particular vice, which, whilst it pos- 
sesses them, preserves them from being ensnared by any other. 
Thus, one man has to contend with cowardice — another with 
pride — this man has to struggle with gluttony, and that with 
anger. In fine, each has, at his left hand, some evil genius, 
with whom he has to wrestle all his life ; and most true it is, 
that, upon the issue of this strife, depends either the happiness 
or misery of his immortal soul. 

Theft was not my besetting sin. That it was not inherent in 
my nature, the horror, I ever afterwards entertained of it, most 
clearly proves ; and, it is but justice to myself to add — 
since I have voluntarily divulged my own crime — that often 
have I gone out of my way to restore any little sum, when, in 
arranging an account with a creditor, he may have taken less 
than was due to him. 

I must then attribute my fail to my having renounced my 
faith in Jesus Christ — to the vain boast, that I could stand 
alone without the aid of my Maker. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 37 



CHAPTER XX. 



Not only did my father keep his promise of not revealing 
my secret, but, three months had scarcely elapsed, when he res- 
tored me to his affection, and I soon rose into renewed favour 
with him. 

Had he disclosed my guilt to my mother, my fate would have 
been sealed. She would instantly have compelled me to enter 
into a Tuscan regiment, or have sent me to serve on board an 
American or English vessel. 

•' Such would have been your destiny, and I could not have 
averted it,'' said my father, the day upon which he par- 
doned me. 

" Judge then, Guido, of the enormity of your crime, by the se- 
verity of the punishment it merited ; then, reflect upon my cle- 
mency, and, may my forgiveness stimulate you to become an 
honoured and virtuous man all the days of your life." 

But, although I was sensibly touched by this rebuke, the gen- 
tle tone of which perhaps offered the only chance of reforming 
me, it had not the same influence upon my heart, as had 
formerly the exhortations of Bertinelli. Upon committing 
any error at that period, I would go into the chapel, pray to 
God for his forgiveness, and implore him to preserve me from 
a repetition of the offence. But now, my father alone had 
pardoned me, God had not. God, who compassionates the 
weakness of frail mortals, and who Himself permits to the 
tempter a limited empire, that man may feel how poor are his 
own powers of resistance without the assistance of his Maker, 
forgives, with the mercy that only a heavenly Father can dis- 
play, the sins of his creatures, and blots them out for ever, 
when they spring from the inherent frailty of humanity. But, 
that God, whose mercy is even greater than any crime which 
man in his weakness can commit, is a jealous God, and most 
severe is He to them who denv Him. 



38 



MY CONFESSIONS. 



The desire to pray for pardon, and for strength to resist evil, 
was not yet awakened within my heart — -a desire that is itself 
of heaven's own creation. " Every good gift, and every per- 
fect gift is from above, and cometh down from the father 
of light." Therefore, know I that God had not pardoned 
me, but willed thus to abandon me to my own pre- 
sumption, that I might learn, by bitter experience, how little I 
could hope, from my own power of doing good, if I renounced 
Him. 

It was about this time that I was first initiated into the rites 
preparatory to my receiving the holy communion, and it was not 
the fault of my mother, or of my preceptors, if anything were 
neglected, which could add to the solemnity of the ceremony, or 
impress me, more fully, with the necessity of its observance for 
my soul's welfare. I learned the catechism by heart, and res- 
ponded unhesitatingly to all the questions therein contained. 
But my lips and memory were alone engaged in this repetition ; 
and, though I might have appeared to listen with attention to 
the priest's exhortation, my heart unceasingly repeated the 
lesson of my perfidious companion : " none but fools believe in 
Christianity." I was exhorted to make a general confession of 
my sins ; I obeyed, though with extreme reservation. But 
when my confessor demanded, " Dost thou, or didst thou ever 
associate with evil companions ?"I replied, "No !" and thus did 
the arch-enemy record my first sacrilege in his book of dark- 
ness ! With this deceit upon my soul, I yet dared to approach 
the altar of God, and, from year to year, I continued to receive 
His holy sacrament but as a mere act of ceremony. 

But, I will not pass over in silence the remembrance of those 
moments, when my heart seemed to return to its former love of 
devotion and prayer. More than once, even at that period, 
have I turned aside from some favourite place of amusement, as 
though irresistibly impelled, to enter a church that stood near 
my path ; retiring therein, into the most unobserved and obscure 
angle of the building, have I with bitter tears prayed God that 
he would restore me to His love, and grant me strength to re- 



MY CONFESSIONS. 39 

sist the hideous torrent, which was hurrying me onwards in its 
fearful course ! 

These moments, fleeting as they were, never failed to pro- 
duce some good effect upon my heart : so true is it that man 
never prays in vain, when he seeks his Creator in the spirit 
of rectitude and virtue. But for these moments, the disorder 
in my soul would have turned into gangrene, which, when past 
remedy, ceases to give pain, and when we are upon the very 
brink of the grave, makes us believe that we are fast advancing 
towards renewed health. This, although these temporary de- 
votions did not entirely re-establish within my heart the love 
of God, faith in Jesus, and a horror of sin, they were so far 
productive of good, that they kept alive and opened the wound 
my soul seemed to have received from its fearful dereliction ; 
so that, stung by the thorns of disquietude which only God 
could have healed, my spirit became at once a prey to restless- 
ness and contention. These were tokens of life, but the soul 
still languished. I felt the hope of salvation within me — I de- 
sired to be saved, but, fool that I was, I thought it a debase- 
ment to pray for God's forgiveness through the intercession of 
Jesus Christ ; and scarcely had these paroxysms — for such I 
must call them — -of devotion and prayer passed away, than 
I hardened myself anew in my presumption, and chose 
rather to endure the misery of my own conscience, than seek the 
mediation of the Saviour. 



CHAPTER XXI. 



One Sunday morning, my mother, having returned from 
mass, was occupied in superintending the arrangement of a col- 
lection of pictures, in her apartment. An artist, a friend of 
our family, was engaged in placing them to her taste, whilst 
my assistance was required, in carrying them to and fro. 



40 



MY CONFESSIONS. 



While we were thus employed, my mother dropped her handker- 
chief ; I picked it up, and gave it her. She thanked me. The 
next moment I perceived her silver snuff box had fallen from 
her hand. As I again sprang forward, to restore it to her, 
she smiled upon me for the second time in her life. Oh I shall 
never forget that smile ; to describe it were impossible ! 

Her time was at hand! But a few short moments, and her 
hour glass had expended its last grain of sand ! Heaven 
was about to open to her. She foresaw her approaching end, 
and feared it not ! But, the smile she cast upon me seemed to 
say she loved me, that she had always tenderly loved me ; and 
that if she had concealed her affection under a cloud of severity, 
it was but to preserve the soul of one, she so much cherished, in 
the paths of rectitude and virtue. But, now that she felt her 
life fast drawing to a close, it grieved her to leave her Guido 
behind, young and inexperienced, exposed without a guide, to 
the struggles of a life of sorrow and deceit. 

Ah Silvio, what a smile was that ! The natural love of a 
child — that yearning to its parent, so long repelled by the policy 
adopted towards me — now seemed to make amends for its pre- 
vious absence, and rushed like a torrent into my breast. That 
smile has proved a ceaseless consolation to me in after years. It 
has assured me that the motive which dictated my mother's ri- 
gour was a just one, and that the bitterness which marked 
each hour of my childhood was ordained by heaven. Had the 
morning of my life been unclouded and serene, my mother's, 
prophecy — which I trust in God was a groundless one — might 
have been fulfilled, and my life possibly terminated disgrace- 
fully. At the remembrance of that smile, heaven seems to 
open to me, and I behold the spirit of my mother, amidst 
the blessed, enjoying that eternal and never fading beatitude 
which emanates from the bosom of her God. 

But, to return to my narrative, the weakness manifested 
by my mother was but the precursor of a fatal disease. She 
was seized with paralysis, and but two hours elapsed before 
she became wholly insensible ; the greater part of this time 



MY CONFESSIONS. 4 1 

she spent in consulting with and consoling my father, who 
listened, bathed in tears, at her bedside. That he did not in- 
stantly send for a medical man, was perhaps owing to his 
having observed his wife for years to be in a declining state. He 
believed not that the hour was so near in which he was to lose 
her for ever. But, although he did not suppose my mother in 
imminent danger, still, a presentiment of evil predominated in 
his mind ; this caused him to exclaim upon our leaving the 
house together in search of medical aid, " Guido, my child, 
thou hast no longer a mother !" Our physician was not at 
home ; we therefore sought another, and returned with him 
immediately, but my mother was insensible. The sight of that 
beautiful countenance pale as marble, those brilliant eyes 
closed in unconsciousness, whilst her lovely smile of that morn- 
ing was still fresh in my remembrance, were daggers to a 
heart formed, as was mine, to love her with all the devotion of 
which a son is capable. I rushed from the room, and shutting 
myself in the most distant part of the house, gave vent to the 
burst of grief which could no longer be controlled. Not one 
act of her past severity, at this moment, presented itself to 
my remembrance. My heart beat alone with anxious love 
for herself — that love, which at the moment of an eternal sepa- 
ration, becomes so intense — the anguish, with the breathlessness 
of feeling, we experience, when about to part for ever with a be- 
loved object, by whose loss we feel suddenly deprived of that 
happiness which animates the heart. 

Whilst I thus gave way to my misery, my mind did not re- 
main inactive, but suffered itself to be carried away by these 
sad but appropriate reflections : 

" That calmness, that resignation, even unto death, which 
when a mother watched over thee, supported thee on the bed 
of sickness, will, when she is departed, forsake thee ; the 
bosom, that has given thee existence, will no longer sustain 
thy drooping head ; whilst the sting of disease, which a mo- 
ther's affection disarms of its venom, will now visit thee in 
its bitterest form ! No sympathy can ever assume a look so 



42 MY CONFESSIONS. 

tender or so sincere as when beaming in the eye of a mother ; 
and death itself, which has hitherto appeared to thee disarmed 
of terror, will now threaten thee in all its reality — a hideous 
skeleton ! " 

Just God ! what a day of misery— of ruined feeling — of 
wretched foreboding, was that ; and how truly have these fore- 
bodings been realized ! 

During the fortnight, that my mother survived her fit of apo- 
plexy, she had but three brief intervals of consciousness. In 
the first she recognized her father, whom she had always ten- 
derly loved, and to whom she had ever been equally dear. He called 
her by her name — Helen — and addressed her in the kindest and 
most affectionate terms. She opened her eyes, turned them 
towards him, and replied to him by a flood of tears ; — happy 
are they who comprehend such tears ! 

After this burst of filial affection, she relapsed into her for- 
mer unconsciousness, from which she did not awake until that 
moment which, with all the zeal, love and charity of his na- 
ture, her confessor — the celebrated Padre Canovai of the Sco- 
lopi — had so anxiously watched, expected, and prayed for. One 
morning, when we knew the good Padre was praying at her bed 
side, we were startled by the ringing of the bell ; we entered 
her chamber, when he commanded us to send immediately for 
the sacrament. 

My mother had lost her speech, but she was herself perfectly 
sensible. Canovai held one of her hands in his, which she 
feebly pressed or not, to indicate her responses to his interro- 
gatories, and which, from having been so many years her con- 
fessor, Canovai knew well how to interpret. At the sound of 
the church bell, which is always rang as a signal that the com- 
munion is about to be administered to a person in extremity, our 
neighbours rushed out with torches to follow in the procession. 
Never have I, before or after, seen so large a concourse of peo- 
ple on a like occasion. More than a hundred gentlemen re- 
mained round the door of the house near the portico, whilst 
the vestibule, the two staircases, the hall, the gallery, and my 



MY CONFESSIONS. 43 

mother's chamber, were equally thronged. Such was the es- 
teem in which my mother was held in Florence, that her dying 
chamber had now become a temple of religion, whither the 
members of our church had transported the reliques of their 
saints to aid the supplication, that God would be merciful to 
her, who was thus dying in the very odour of sanctity. 

She received the sacrament, with perfect self-possession, and 
shed tears of resignation, gratitude, and faith. Her eye dwelt 
successively upon each of us as we surrounded her bed. She 
smiled upon all — her third smile to me — and thus she looked 
the last farewell of a christian and fond mother. From that 
moment, she scarcely retained any consciousness, and, three 
days afterwards, she exchanged a world of sorrow and trouble 
for a heaven of peace and happiness. 



CHAPTER XXII. 



How strange and mysterious are the operations of human 
feelings ! Scarcely had my mother breathed her last, when a 
new page in the book of existence seemed to open to my view, 
in which I could read, as though it had been traced in charac- 
ters of light, the delight that being must experience, who, for 
the first time, feels himself freed from a heavy yoke, which had 
well nigh weighed him to the earth ; and escaped from the res- 
triction of a curb, which would not suffer him to turn either to 
the one side or the other. 

Mistaken sentiment, fatal liberty ! He only is free, who, 
sheltered beneath the wing of the Most High, struggles with 
his own passions, and by the protecting shadow of that wing, 
finally triumphs over them. 

That is not tyranny which springs from the mere power of a 
frail mortal like ourselves, who destined by fortune to occupy 
a more exalted station in the scale of humanity, walks forth 



44 MY CONFESSIONS. 

clothed in purple and fine linen, which " moths do corrupt," pos- 
sessed of that treasure which " thieves break through and steal," 
whilst he thereby assumes to himself the poor and limited autho- 
rity to mortify or kill the bodies of his fellow men. No — the ty- 
ranny is of our own creation. We are the tyrants of ourselves; we 
despise the heavenly reason that animates us, and impiously bar- 
ter the soul's eternal welfare, in which lies our only true free- 
dom, with the grovelling desires of the heart, which, scarcely 
satisfied, becomes sated and disgusted with its own enjoyment! 

Behold me, now, become suddenly so]e master of myself 
and of my actions. The feeling which induced my fa- 
ther to grant me such uncontrolled liberty was this. The 
close of the present year would terminate my stay at the " Seo- 
lopi," where I had been under the distinguished professor of 
eloquence Padre Mauro Bernardini. The next year I was to 
proceed to the university of Pisa, where I should be without 
check or restraint of any kind. His resolution was moreover se- 
conded by a more reasonable motive ; he wished to accustom me 
to my liberty, whilst under his own eye, in order that he might 
himself judge of the use I should make of it, when at a distance 
from him. That I did not abuse this liberty, was principally 
owing to the love of study, which allowed me but very few 
intervals of leisure ; whilst a singular caprice of mind, that it is 
not easy to account for in the outset of youth, guided my bark 
from that rock, upon which so many are wrecked, when they 
first leave their harbour alone and undirected. 

The infidelity of the wife of Menelaus, which was the cause 
of a long ten years' war, the destruction of a beautiful city 
peopled with heroes, and finally of the excessive misery of the 
victors themselves after their successful siege, had, even at my 
age, awakened within me a feeling of something stronger than 
indifference towards women. I despised them heartily ; 
I should not much belie my sentiments if I said that / then 
actually hated them ! 

Each of my school companions had his exclusive idol of 
adoration, and not one of them would, for the world, have been 



MY CONFESSIONS. 45 

without his presiding goddess, on the subject of whose charms 
he might occasionally rave. Nothing was heard of but con- 
stant misery, ceaseless lamentation about indifference, faithless- 
ness, ingratitude, deceit, the severity of parents, and I know 
not what else. I was the confidant of most of them, and whenever 
a fresh subject of despair presented itself, the unhappy sufferer 
in tears, and with the most sorrowful countenance, came to 
implore my consolation and advice. To each I applied a dif- 
ferent balsam, according to the nature of his wound, and his 
peculiar disposition, which I knew well how to discern. With 
the one I adopted raillery; to the other I exposed the de- 
fects of his innamorata ; to another I vaunted the peace I 
myself enjoyed, in not caring for the approbation of any wo- 
man ; whilst the fourth I endeavoured to inspire with a con- 
tempt for the whole sex, assuring him that all were alike un- 
worthy of his regard. But alas, my remedies soon ceased to 
be effective. Each wound opened afresh, my companions groaned 
anew, and I continued to ridicule, or scold them, as before. 

Whilst my mind was thus harshly disposed against the gentler 
sex, I cannot, even at this period, comprehend what impulse 
induced me, to return a smile bestowed upon me from the win- 
dow of a beautiful coquette, upon whose favour depended the 
happiness or misery of at least fifteen or twenty youths, who, 
night and morning, passed through her street, to offer their 
adoration at the shrine of her beauty, or in her absence, at 
her window. I was acquainted with nearly all of them, 
greater part indeed were my school companions. It how- 
ever pleased this fickle fair one to elect me for her favourite 
cavaliere, which was the more remarkable, as, amongst her 
crowd of adorers, there were at least a dozen youths whose 
countenances eclipsed any pretensions I might have had to 
personal appearance. 

But this apparent preference of me was but the result of 
caprice, on the part of this female tyrant. She wished to in- 
crease that flame, in my rivals, she had already kindled, prin- 
cipally for the sake of tormenting her victims. 



46 MY CONFESSIONS. 

In proportion as she displayed her partiality to me, so my 
appearance before her window became displeasing to the 
many candidates for her favour; but, as they had suffered them- 
selves to become enamoured of her outward beauty, regard- 
less of the extreme deformity of her mind, theirs was an 
undignified passion, which alike forbade them to withdraw 
in disdain from an unsuccessful contest, or to suffer Signor 
Guido to rank himself in the lists of an honourable rivalry. 

But, although the coquette had this liberty of presenting 
herself at the window, whenever she felt so disposed, she was 
not permitted to receive any of the tender billets with which 
her lovers would have regaled her, each time they passed 
through the street. Egress from her house was inexorably 
prohibited by a good mother, who, although extremely 
infirm, would not suffer her daughter ever to quit her. 
Therefore this farce was performed by actors, who were 
always in the street, and by an actress occasionally at the 
window. One beautiful summer's evening, it occurred to me 
to select the road which led through her street, on my re- 
turn home. The moon shone most brilliantly : it seemed al- 
most to rival the sun's superior light. I reached her house, 
gave my accustomed whistle — that was the token of my ap- 
pearance, each of us having a separate signal to intimate his 
approach. The window was instantly opened, and, from 
thence, this syren threw me one of the most beautiful roses 
I had ever beheld. I caught it, and carried it not to my 
ljp Sj — I wa s not such a fool — but to my nose, when at that 
moment, a sudden blow, aimed at me from some one behind, 
sent my hat into the air, my rose to the kennel, and little 
signor Guido staggering to the earth. I rose, and beheld 
mv assailant standing over me with closed and raised fists. 
His face was livid with anger. 

' ( Take thy hat," he exclaimed in a trembling voice, " leave 
this spot — and shouldst thou ever again present thyself in this 
street, that moment shall be thy last!" He paused to re- 
cover breath, and then added, " Remember, Signor Guido, 



MY CONFESSIONS. 47 

thou owest it to our friendship alone that I do not crush 
thee upon the instant." I recognized him ; it was Francesco 
Parenti of Ponte a Sieve — now Dr. Francesco Parenti. He was 
mv schoolfellow, a high spirited handsome youth, and a staunch 
friend of mine ; I had never dreamed of meeting him in the 
list of this coquette's admirers. I looked at him, but spoke 
not ; surprise seemed to have paralyzed me, and to have de- 
prived me of the power of instantly resenting the injury I had 
received. But, not the less surely, had my most evil passions 
been roused. I however took my hat mechanically and left 
the spot. Shame, at having received a blow in the sight of 
my fair one, and anger, that that blow should have been 
dealt by the hand of one so dear to me, for a time deprived 
me of the power of reasonably judging of what I was about 
to do. I did not walk — I flew home. I rushed into the 
kitchen, and seizing upon the first knife that lay within my 
grasp, I sharpened it against the stone used for that purpose. 
To supply the place of a sheath to conceal it, I enveloped 
the blade several times in a sheet of paper, and turned from 
my home to retrace my hasty steps to the scene of my de- 
gradation — I cannot say of my love. All this did not oc- 
cupy the space of twenty minutes. 

I reached the street — and, at the distance of a hundred 
paces from me, I beheld Parenti standing beneath the win- 
dows of the beauty. It was not jealousy, for I despised 
this woman, and hated the whole sex ; but wounded self- 
love and abused friendship so aggravated my feelings 
at this moment, that, before shedding his blood, I felt as 
though I already tasted the sweets of revenge in the ima- 
gined spectacle of my friend slain at my feet. " This will 
reach his heart ! " I uttered almost aloud ; and drawing forth 
my knife, I thrust my arm forward as though to assure my- 
self of my skill to perform the fearful act I meditated. 
Scarcely had I enacted this anticipated horror with my right 
hand, when an unusual sense of pain in my left made me 
pause to examine the cause ; and I now discovered three of 



48 MY CONFESSIONS. 

my fingers had been severely cut, one in particular quite 
through to the bone. The blood at this moment began to 
flow in streams from the wound. My better angel once more 
removed the veil from before my eyes, whilst the evil one 
retired in shame to his abode — and I, who was but within 
a hundred paces of the friend, whom I had come purposely 
to sacrifice, now rushed humiliated from him, and walked 
calmly to the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova, where my fin- 
gers were bound up by the celebrated surgeon Ceccherini, one 
of my most intimate friends. 



CHAPTER XXIIL 



Praise be to Thee ! — all glory ascribed to thy name, oh 
heavenly and beneficent Father ! — merciful and Omnipresent 
Deity ! Had I the voice of an angel, the fervour of the 
seraphims, with a heart purified like their own with the love 
of their God, scarcely were I then worthy to offer unto Thee 
the praises due to Thy great name, for Thy supreme mercies 
vouchsafed unto me. But since all that man dares offer to 
God, in exchange for his unnumbered benefits, is the 
gratitude of his whole yet short life, why, oh why, have I but 
now become warmed by its influence ? 

Wretched was my course when unsupported by faith, and un- 
directed by the precepts of religion. 

O divine hand of Providence ! which withdrew me from the 
fearful precipice into which I had so nearly fallen, when upon 
the point of slaying my friend ! With the blood of my fel- 
low man upon my soul, I should have ever borne within me the 
arrow of remorse ; I had become abhorred by men, the terror 
Of myself ! 

Never can I doubt the miracle of Thy interposition : never 
shall I believe myself capable of virtue unsustained by Thee, 



MY CONFESSIONS. 49 

for I firmly believe that God will interpose miraculously 
even in favour of the sinner. By all capable of reflection, 
life must ever be considered as one continued miracle. The 
health we enjoy, springing as it does from a body frail as that 
of man's; the accidents we avoid in a world encompassed by 
peril ; our desire of virtue, though the heart, which awakens 
it, is by nature so desperately wicked ; are not these so 
many miracles of every day's recurrence ? and is it not alike 
impious to deny or doubt them ? 

It would be impossible to describe the feelings that nearly 
overpowered me, when, the morning after my affray with 
Parenti, I met him, as usual, in school. I had arrived there 
half an hour before him, The instant I saw him enter, my 
eyes filled with tears, and my heart overflowed with gra- 
titude to God and love for my friend. 

As he walked towards the master's pulpit, which is the first 
duty of the scholar upon his entrance, to repeat his "Ave 
Maria,'' and to salute the Professor, Parenti bent his eye 
upon me, as though he expected to read in my face tokens 
of the hatred, aroused by his treatment of me the night 
before. His fine countenance seemed, already, to plead elo- 
quently for the pardon he so much desired, and the half 
smile, which rendered his expression yet more beautiful, would 
have made it impossible for me to withhold that pardon. But, 
when he perceived that I returned his smile, that I still 
looked upon him with affection, his face resembled the sun 
suddenly emerging from behind a darkening cloud. 

At the termination of the lesson he approached me eagerly, 
and asked me, in a tone of the most friendly sympathy, why I 
held my arm in a sling. 

I gave him an undisguised relation of what had occurred to 
me. Scarcely had he heard me to a close, when he threw 
his arms round my neck, and, in a flood of tears, implored 
me to pardon him. 

" In what a fearful peril have we both stood," he ex- 
claimed : " Oh Guido ! hear me, whilst I swear to thee," he 

D 



50 MY CONFESSIONS. 

added, ''never, never again will [ return to that window, 
nor bestow another thought upon that heartless coquette !" 
He kept his promise, and I followed his example. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

I have now reached the last scene, but one, of the first por- 
tion of my life : a new epoch is at hand ! The government of 
Florence maintains, at its own cost, a seminary at Pisa, called 
II Collegio della Sapienza, for the exclusive purpose of edu- 
cating a limited number of Tuscan youths. Some vacancies 
occurred every year in this establishment, to fill which became 
an object of rivalry amongst the youth within its vicinity. 
The year in which I preferred my claim for this much envied 
distinction, three vacancies had occurred, and there were no 
less than seventy candidates. Notwithstanding this formidable 
competition, I presented myself, and passed my examination. 
I am ashamed to confess, that deceit and effrontery had more to 
do with my success, than any real superiority over the other 
candidates. T well knew that the lives of Cornelius Nepos, 
Ovid's Trislia, and Virgil's sE)ieid were the three books 
selected, to become the test of the student's acquirements. 1 
did not fail to profit by this knowledge. Several weeks, before 
the examination was to take place, I prepared myself by 
learning by heart six pages of the commencement of each part 
of the Lives, of each Canto, and of each Book. At length I stood 
before the learned tribunal, of which Pignotti — the Italian 
-t'Esop*— was the presiding judge. I commenced my ordeal bv 
reading the first part of the Life of Themistocles, from Cornelius 
Nepos, in Latin. I then analized the construction of the Latin 
sentences, as the other candidates had done before me, and 
finally read it in Italian. I repeated the same process in 
Ovid, and from thence proceeded to Virgil. It was the first 
part of the second book, which had been selected for my 



MY CONFESSIONS. 5 I 

examination. Scarcely had I read the Latin, than, without 
availing myself of the intermediate facility afforded by con- 
struing, which had been resorted to by the others so much' 
cleverer than myself, I at once rendered the passage in Italian. 

Bernardini, Professor of Eloquence, at the Scolopi, was 
delighted at my success. He seemed really much interested 
in mv behalf, and was so much deceived as to believe it to be 
the result of my superior knowledge. He asked the President 
if he were content with Sorelli ? 

" Perfectly satisfied," was the President's laconic reply. 

Bernardini smiled with gratified feeling, and tapping me on 
the shoulder, exclaimed kindly : " Go, go, Signor Guide, 
thou art already a member of ' La Sapienza /' " 

Behold me then installed within the college walls at Pisa, 
and one of the two thousand scholars, who, after the hour of 
study, regularly assembled at the " Caffe delV Ussero, " on the 
banks of the Arno. Novice as I was, it would have been 
well for me not to have visited the Cafie, and even carefully 
to have avoided coming into contact, either in the school- 
room, or in the streets of Pisa with any of the older scholars. 
It was the custom of these young gentlemen, upon meeting 
with a new comer, especially if he should betray any symptoms 
of timidity, to seize him unceremoniously by the hair of 
his head, and compel the unhappy novice to promise 
to provide them with a certain number of breakfasts ; 
in failure of complying with which request, they gave him a 
sound beating, and he was even subjected to a repetition of 
this treatment, should he ever have the temerity to appear in 
the public walks, at the same time with the students. 

It was my good fortune, that at this period, the Florentine 
biennial and triennial scholars happened to be my particular 
friends, and were themselves much respected hy the older 
members of the University. I was, therefore, presented by 
them to the other collegians as a youth worthy their coun- 
tenance. This was quite sufficient to ensure me a good recep- 
tion. The assembled patriarchs of the party, to the number of 

D 2 



52 MY CONFESSIONS. 

twenty four, surrounded me, and each inflicting upon my head a 
smart blow of encouragement — after the royal fashion, I pre- 
sume, of creating knights, by the stroke of a sword — they took 
me under their protection, and themselves paid the customary 
breakfast for the novice. I commenced studying the law : but 
I was not born to be a lawyer ; I detested the study : and 
therefore threw it up within a month. If 1 am asked why I dis- 
liked that profession, I will thus reply candidly. — Because, I 
found that, when the cause of the honest man was advocated by 
the honorable Counsellor, that of the rogue in every country, ne- 
cessarily became the portion of the inferior advocate, who, 
himself scarcely less a rogue, from his defence of a cause con- 
trary to his own sense of right, acts in defiance of every prin- 
ciple of honor and justice. 

My constant neglect of study, however, exposed me to con- 
siderable hasard, for, it was the duty of the Professors at the 
University to examine those students, who were maintained by 
the Government of Florence, once or twice in each month — 
when, if it appeared that any one of them had failed thrice 
successively in answering the proposed interrogations, his name 
w^as erased from that of the community, and he was compelled 
to refund, to the Government, the sum of money which had 
been expended upon him during his stay at the college. The 
kindness of the Professors, who always seemed to reserve for 
me the least abstruse questions, and the friendship of the 
really talented amongst my companions* at whose side I 
usually placed myself, during the examination, to obtain from 
them the answer which I might have failed to give myself, pre- 
served me from the odium of a dismissal ; and for three years 
I remained a member of this learned community, without 
possessing the shadow of knowledge. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 53 



CHAPTER XXV. 

My distaste for the study of the law begot, in ray mind, a 
habit of indolence, that unhappily predisposed me to the vice of 
gambling. I joined a billiard party, in the first instance, 
merely as a recreation ; too soon, however, this fascinating, but 
dangerous amusement, became an evil — a necessary evil. The 
law had disgusted me, and I therefore had no fixed object of 
pursuit. Idleness is the parent of vice ; can it be wondered 
at, then, that play became my recreation .... in short, my pre- 
vailing vice ? From a perfect ignorance of the game, I be- 
came, by dint of great practice, extremely skilful. At this time 
I lodged in the house of a married couple, who had been my 
father's friends. The reason, that I did not reside within the 
walls of the seminary, was this : — during the invasion of Italy 
by the French in the last century, the College had been, like 
many other places, dismantled by them. As long as the 
French continued possessed by the demon of conquest, their 
presence in every town — in every village in Europe, that was 
overrun by them — proved the signal of extinction to the sacred 
lamps of religion and morality. The spirit of justice itself, at 
their approach, quitted its earthly habitation. They broke in 
pieces the shrine of Peace and Virtue ; and raised in its stead a 
false image, that they affected to call the " Tree of Liberty" . . . 
a phantasm, from which they plucked the brand of discord and 
rapine. Thanks to God, who has freed them from that demon, 
and has, at last, liberated Europe from that dreadful scourge ! 
— The Government of Florence, at the period of which I 
am speaking, had not the means, nor perhaps the inclination, 
to repair the damage the College had sustained, and therefore 
allowed to each member seven crowns per month to maintain 
himself as he best could, without its precincts. To this sum, 
however, my father, who was desirous I should have every 



54 MY CONFESSIONS. 

comfort, made a considerable addition ; at the same time, re- 
commending me, most earnestly, to the care of those with whom 
I boarded. This worthy couple, indeed, almost supplied 
to me the affection of parents : but they dared not, neither 
would they have desired, to dictate to me the manner of 
spending my time, when not within their tranquil domicile. 

They, however, manifested the greatest regard for me. Upon 
what they grounded their good opinion I know not, save that 
it has ever been my lot to be esteemed, so much beyond my 
merit, by all with whom I have been connected — and, indeed, I 
am often saddened by this reflection. It requires but little 
self-examination to convince ourselves, how little we merit the 
regard of man — and much less the approval of God. — The 
heart is an index that deceives not. . . .that flatters not. It is 
the dwelling place of conscience, and conscience is our guardian 
angel. 

I set out one evening to pay my constant visit to the 
billiard -room. Fortune, who for two years had encouraged me 
with her smiles, this night resolved to desert me. I was soon 
aware of it, and became much troubled. Disconcerted as I 
was, I could no longer calmly view my game. My usual skill 
took flight, and each ball now rolled without mark or effect. 
Before midnight I had lost every shilling which I possessed, 
and my companion begged me to throw up the game. I 
required him to continue playing with me, and to accept my 
word as the pledge of payment, should I still be unsuccessful. 
He again would have dissuaded me. I told him, that I had 
at my apartments a quantity of new linen, which I had received 
but the week before from Florence, and I only desired to play 
for its value. Still he opposed my request, representing to me 
the infatuation that I appeared to be in, and that probably I 
should repent, on the morrow, having lost so much. I still in- 
sisted, and now went so far as to declare, that I should be mor- 
tally offended, if he persisted in refusing me the chance of 
another point. 

" I will give it you to-morrow," he again urged. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 55 

*' This night or never ; and, unless you comply with my re- 
quest, I shall cease to regard you as my friend.' ' I replied, 
passionately. fr 

" Well, then," said he, " fix your own value upon the 
articles, and we will play for that sum : but if it chance that 
you again lose, I warn you that I play no more ; and should you 
accuse me of injustice, remember, the injustice will be your 
own/' 

We re -commenced. I lost every thing ; and at about 
three o'clock in the morning, I presented myself at the door of 
my lodging with my companion and the pallajo* My kind 
hostess, who had been accustomed to see me return home every 
night before eleven o'clock, had awaited my coming with much 
alarm, strongly apprehensive that some accident must have be- 
fallen me, 

" This is a fine time of night to make your appearance, 
Signor Guido !" she exclaimed, somewhat caustically, upon 
seeing me enter without any apparent signs of having en- 
countered any disaster. '* Pray, may I ask if anything un- 
pleasant has happened to detain you ?" she added. — 
tf Nothing," I replied, laconically. " And who may these 
gentlemen be, Signor Guido ?" she pursued, perceiving my 
companions. " My friends — and now suffer me to pass," I 
answered tartly. The unusual visit of strangers, and at so late 
ai. hour, so bewildered my curious hostess, that she followed, 
as it were, mechanically, to my apartment, unable to utter 
anDther word. On reaching the room, I opened my wardrobe, 
anl emptied it of all the linen it contained. The two before 
meationed individuals took possession of it, wished me good 
nigit, and left the room. 

Myhcstess who, during this process, had remained im- 
moveable, and pale as a statue, now exclaimed in a voice 
trenbling with agitation as the door closed upon my com- 
panions : — 

* The Pallajo answers to the English Marker at billiards. 



56 MT CONFESSIONS, 

" Signor Guido, tell me, I beseech you, the meaning of what 
I have just seen ?" 

" I have lost a debt of honor, and, as a man of honor, I have 
acquitted myself to my creditors/' 

" And the linen ?" she enquired. 

" That, too, has vanished in smoke/' I replied, laughing. 

" Good Heaven ! what will your father say, when he hears 
of your misconduct r" exclaimed my sympathising hostess, and 
covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears. 

The tear, awakened by the misfortune or sorrow of another r 
is in itself so lovely, so amiable, that it were impossible to 
look upon it, and not feel oneself overcome in turn by its in- 
fluence. Silvio, thou wilt surely doubt me, when I tell thee, 
that the English, endowed with feelings at once refined and. 
exalted, detest the sight of tears, and are taught, from infancy, 
to repress them, whenever, from Nature's impulse, they spring 
to the eye. Yes, it is even so. In excuse for this remnant 
of barbarism, they tell me, " that tears are but the token of 
weakness : that while their sympathy for ' another's woe/ 
is a profound sentiment, lasting and indelible ; on tte 
other hand, the poignancy of my affliction is dispelled by a 
flood of sorrow, and my mind presently resumes its natuial 
tone of gaiety and hilarity." It is useless for me to contend 
with them. If I ever venture to engage in a controversy upon 
the point, I am overwhelmed by such a weight of philosophi- 
cal argument, that I am compelled to be silent, having nothing 
to oppose to it but the intensity of my feelings. 

Are the purest and most generous impulses of the human 
heart to be repressed by a theory as much open to the chaige 
of selfishness and indifference, as mine is to weakness aid 
shallowness ? No ! the heart is in itself indefinable : it is «ne 
of the mysterious links that connect us with an immortal 
nature, and delicious and holy are its native aspiratioas I 
How many tears have I shed, during the last fifteen yean of 
my existence, in contemplating the fate of my now helpless 
. . . . my kind, my aged father, who is reduced to wear out his 



MY CONFESSIONS. bl 

last years in poverty and obscurity, whilst I am still unable 
to ameliorate his destiny to the extent it would be my exulta- 
tion .... my happiness to accomplish ? Has my heart slumbered, 
one moment, in remembrance, or has my affection, for that 
dear, that suffering parent, beenlessened, by the outward, though 
silent tokens, of my sorrow ? Oh ! could the English but read 
that which is passing within me, how would their boasted rea- 
soning crumble into atoms ! Yet they admire . . * * while they 
record a trait in the character of their King Charles I. Upon 
a gentleman presenting himself before him attired in deep 
mourning habiliments, for the death of his friend, Sir Charles 
Lucas, who had been shot, together with Sir George Lisle, 
in order to satisfy a cruel policy after the abandonment of the 
siege of Colchester by the royal party, the monarch paid to the 
memory of his friends a tribute, that not his own many and 
keen misfortunes had ever extorted from him ;— he wept 
their untimely fate. I marvel that the ancients, in their mytho- 
logical devices, had never thought of erecting a temple sa- 
cred to a tear ! 

Well, Silvio, to proceed, then, with my narration. At the 
sight of the tears of my kind hostess, I wept also. This she 
perceived ; and immediately recovering herself, the affectionate 
creature dried her eyes, embraced me, bade me not despair, and 
offered to replace, from her own, my despoiled wardrobe — 
f That she might thereby spare Signer Gaetano Sorelli the 
sorrow of learning my misconduct." 

" No, no, my kind, my faithful friend !" I exclaimed, quite 
overcome by this trait of generosity in one, whom I knew to 
be far from prosperous. " No, I will immediately write to my 
father, confess my transgression, and implore his forgiveness. 
The pain this avowal will cost me, may save me from again 
falling into so great a sin." 

I instantly carried my resolution into effect, and read the 
letter to the Signora, who sobbed, as she listened to my peni- 
tential pleadings : I then sealed it, and went to bed, I rose 
next morning, and put my letter in the post. Three days 

d 3 



? >8 MY CONFESSIONS. 

after, I received a packet containing wice the quantity of 
linen I had lost at play . . . . and a letter from my father, in 
these words : 

" My dear Cuido, 

" I pardon thee : therefore say no more of what has occurred. 
I have sent the linen, of which thou must stand in need. — Re- 
member me especially to our friend, thy kind hostess : be wise 
and prudent. 

" Thy ever affectionate Father, 

•* Gaetano Sorelli." 



CHAPTER XXVI. 



To render good for evil, springs from the suggestion of a soul, 
conscious of its immortality : it is an act apart from humanity : 
and perverse indeed must be that nature, which is insensible to 
the kindness and forbearance of him it has injured. 

The concise letter of my father produced a result, that neither 
reproof nor castigation would have effected with me. The more 
apparent became the generosity of his pardon, the more guilty 
did 1 appear to my self-condemning conscience. Whilst my 
father, by his conduct, seemed elevated beyond the common 
feelings of humanity, I felt myself degraded to the meanest 
level, unworthy of my Creator, my parent and myself. 

I read my father's letter to my hostess, who exclaimed with 
joy sparkling in her eyes : — 

" How happy am I that you confessed your error to youi 
father, for you will — I know — never again displease so kind a 
parent.' ' 

" No— never," I exclaimed, with emotion ; " never will I 
again play for gain ;" and I kept my promise. 

It happened, about this period, that the Government of 



MY CONFESSIONS. 59 

Florence passed, from the hands of the French, into those of 
Ferdinand the Third, brother of Francis, Emperor of Austria. 
A proclamation was consequently issued, to the Professors of * 
the University of Pisa, commanding them to instruct the 
students into the two codes of laws, namely — that of Leopold I, 
Grand Duke of Tuscany, and that of Napoleon, It was farther 
announced that, in consideration of this change of dynasty, 
those students who had applied themselves, for some years, to 
Napoleon's code, and who washed not to occupy themselves in 
this fresh application, were permitted to retire from the Uni- 
versity, without either losing their degrees, or refunding, to the 
Government, the expenses of their previous residence at the 
College. 

This was to me a most agreeable announcement. I imme- 
diately quitted the University, and returned to Florence, where, 
instead of Doctor Guido Sorelli, I became Signor Guido Sorelli, 
Professor of Languages. From this moment, I entered upon 
a profession, which has ever been to my taste, as, it appears 
to me, one of the few, in which dependence — when accompanied 
by a well-regulated mind — may assume to itself a dignity of 
feeling, which may alike conciliate the esteem of the learned, 
and command the respect of those, upon whom Fortune has 
conferred titles and riches. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 



I had not long exercised my profession, when a rich banker, 
of the name of Orelli, arrived at Florence from Zurich. He 
was a person of much consideration, and had visited our city 
for the purpose of finding out a Florentine, who was required to 
be not less a gentleman, than a competent professor of his own 
language, and w T ho would be willing to exchange his native town 
for Zurich, where he, Orelli, resided. His choice fell upon me. 



60 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Endowed with extremely noble principles, Orelli thought 
proper to impress me with an almost mean portrait of the 
elegant city of Zurich, fearing that I might picture it to myself 
as a second Florence, and thus experience a disappointment, upon 
my arrival there. I replied to him, that, for myself, I had, 
during each year of my conscious existence, done little else than 
contemplate Italy's beautiful and serene sky, until I had even 
now become almost satiated with its loveliness. I assured him, 
that were I to see the bright firmament wrapped in clouds, and 
the eternal brightness of the sun obscured but for a season, I 
should cease to indulge in the wild chimeras, fancy so oft pre- 
sented to my view : my visions would then return to the level 
of this world's reality ; and I should then cast aside the veil 
of imagination, to comprehend mankind, to know myself, 
and, what was yet more important, to study the great end of 
our being. My oration seemed somewhat incomprehensible to 
the Zuricker. He ascribed it to one of fancy's sudden flights, 
in her own wild and beautiful atmosphere, and believed that 
my wings, yet too young, would not support me long in her 
bright region of immateriality. He, however, conversed with 
me, for some hours each day that he remained at Florence, to 
endeavour, if possible, to discover my disposition : and truly 
did he try me on every point. 

" How can it be," he once said to me, '* that a Florentine 
should choose to quit the beautiful sun of Italy, this happy 
climate, to go and bury himself amidst our clouds and snows ? 
Can you make me believe, it is no sacrifice to pass from idle- 
ness, which has so peculiar a charm in this country, to inde- 
fatigable employment, to which you must positively submit if, 
in quitting Florence, you would still preserve the condition of a 
gentleman ?" 

My replies, which were at all times the suggestions of my 
heart, satisfied him : the more so, perhaps, that, having for the 
la^t five years been the favourite pupil of the celebrated 
Morrocchesi — the Talma of the Italian stage — I had acquired a 
command of voice, tone and feature, which, although a youth, 



MY CONFESSIONS. 62 

a Florentine, and one of the gayest spirits, enabled me to 
assume a dignified seriousness, that quite overcame the 
severity of the Zuricker. At the conclusion of my harangues, * 
he was sure to exclaim : — " Well, Signor Guido, if you 
thoroughly understand your native language, and observe a 
proper conduct, your fortune is made at Zurich/' He after- 
wards proposed my accompanying him to Naples, and from 
thence proceeding to Zurich. But, I was impatient to enter 
upon my new career : and therefore represented to him, that I 
should prefer going directly to my destination, in order that I 
might at once commence my occupation. He therefore gave 
me letters of introduction to Milan, and to every city through 
which I proposed passing in my route. After which, repeating 
to me his continual maxim, when speaking to me; " Skill, and 
good conduct V he left Florence, and directed his own course to 
Naples. 

It was fortunate, for my own safety, that I did not accompany 
the Zuricker. He was attacked by a party of brigands, not 
far from Rome, who took from him all he possessed, with the 
exception of a beautiful cristal flute, which, indeed, was the 
property of one of his travelling companions. Orelli, how- 
ever, only viewed his misfortune in the light of a diverting 
adventure, and which was afterwards to afford material for 
amusing conversation. With the most perfect coolness and 
good- will, he merely demanded of the brigands to restore 
him his flute. To this request they graciously assented, 
having previously requested, in their turn, that he would play 
them an air on the instrument. Had I accompanied Orelli to 
Naples, I fear my adventureswould have begun rather more sadly 
than those of Gil Bias, who contrived to satisfy the old men- 
dicant assassin with the few reales he threw into his hat, 
notwithstanding the threatening manner in which the old 
soldier preferred his demand of charity, by pointing a gun at 
him from the hedge. The brigands would not have let Signor 
Guido off upon such easy terms .... not until they had eased 
him of all his money and effects. 



6 2 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Nothing now detained me at Florence but to seek my 
father's blessing, to bid adieu to Clecfe, and to the rest of my 
family. 

The moment had not yet arrived in which I was to feel that, 
in this last step, is alone comprehended all that sorrow poss- 
esses the most hitter and most painful. I had yet to learn, 
by the experience of after years, that such it was, to abandon 
my country, and separate myself voluntarily from my family, in 
search of fame and fortune in a foreign land. 

" Neu malis alienos adjungere, quam sanguine conjunctos 
retinere. Quis autem amicior, quam frater fratri ? aut quern 
alienum fidum invenies, si tuis hostis fueris ?" 

My extreme youth can alone excuse the heartlessness, with 
which I then separated from the best and dearest ties of nature. 
Everv happiness was then, with me, in perspective : and that 
anticipation, which, in my estimation, constitutes the delight 
of every terrestrial enjoyment, presented every object, to my 
imagination, invested with a roseate hue. As the eye, in 
a vast expanse, cares not to dwell upon the prospect nearest 
in view, but, throws its rapid and eager glance upon that 
point which is scarcely visible, so does the heart ever forget 
its own present happiness, and yearn for that farthest from its 
reach. Heaven grant, that, whilst life's awful barrier still 
remains, which separates us from eternity, our eyes may 
seek but to contemplate heaven .... our heart desire but its 
God. 

During the brief period of youth, time seems to stand still, 
like the Sun, at the- command of Joshua, on Mount Gideon ! 
Clothed in the bright colouring, in which fancy and distance 
adorns them, every object maintains the same apparently 
ethereal and angelic nature, and each in turn is contemplated and 
desired by youth, as that alone necessary to complete his self- 
created paradise. But how changed is the feeling, when those 



MY CONFESSIONS. 63 

few moments have flown. . . .vanished like a beautiful dream ! 
Day follows day — weeks are completed — months — years circle 
in succession. Brief as his life may have been, man's years ' 
yet appear to him ages : and why ? — because, each year, as 
it comes fraught with sorrow, brings him nearer to those 
objects, which, from afar, looked so beautiful. . . .so heavenly ! 
— because, each year has proved to man the sadness of reality, 
which, in withdrawing from his lovely portraiture the angelic 
veil with which fancy had invested it, discloses all that is 
mortal and ( perishable : the rose is withered — the thorn alone 
remains. 

Upon my knees, I asked my father's blessing : with a tearless 
eye, I embraced my dear Cleofe, bade a gay adieu to the 
rest of my family : and, for the first time in my life, left my 
own sweet Florence with a mind all joy, and a heart all hope 
and happiness. 



END OF PART I. 



PART II. 



PART II. 



CHAPTER I. 

Behold me then at Zurich ! I had now quitted the city 
designated by ail Europe " the beautiful [*' I had bidden 
adieu to a people, gentle in their feelings, whose language is 
worthy to be spoken by angels, who are enthusiastic admirers 
of all that is most noble and exalted, who are liberally en- 
dowed by nature with intellectual qualities, and who are yet 
modest in the possession of these advantages. Yes, I had 
voluntarily abandoned such a people, and, after a long, though 
not an uninteresting journey, I now found myself in a strange 
city, where, amid a population of eleven thousand, almost 
every individual seems to assume to himself the air and con- 
sequence of a prince,* whilst the country people, in the vicinity 

* A further acquaintance, with the independent spirit and lofty bear- 
ing of the Zurickers, induced me to interpret, perhaps somewhat 
maliciously the Latin inscription on the town-house, " Senatus Popu- 
lusque Tigurinus," in the Italian legend, " Sono Principi Quasi Tutti" 
<k they are almost all princes." 



68 MY CONFESSIONS. 

of the town, are looked upon, by them, as mere peasants. My 
ears were assailed by a patois more barbarous, than I had 
imagined man could ever have invented, and which I neither 
comprehended, nor desired to understand. Such was the 
strange, not to say inauspicious commencement of my first 
voyage on the high sea of existence. 

The last traces of my own beautiful country had faded into 
distance, whilst the well-remembered accents, which had till 
now struck upon mine ear, and vibrated within my heart, 
with all the thrill of affection, were now no longer audible. 
I was for the first time in my life, alone, solitary amidst a 
crowd, desolate, perhaps in peril. I was thus thrown on 
my feeble self ! Yet this scene, far from inspiring me with 
fear, interested me.... almost pleased me. So long as the 
soul remains enclosed within its frail tenement of mortality, 
novelty will ever continue the idol, before which man must offer 
his most servile adoration. It is the embodying of our ideal hap- 
piness. . .the realization of the heart's constant cravings. . . .it is 
our present paradise. But, alas ! how fleeting is that present ! one 
moment gives it us . . .and it is gone. Indifference soon recals 
the heart, from its momentary consciousness of happiness, the 
desire of something new is again awakened, and hope and 
expectation once more supply the place of a transient reality. 
This too is attained— though, like the former, to be felt but for 
a moment — then cast aside as tasteless and unsatisfactory. 

But how is it, that notwithstanding our repeated warnings 
from that unerring monitor, experience, of the vanity, the 
instability of human enjoyments, we are, yet, ever forming to 
ourselves, fresh schemes of future pleasures — of prospective 
happiness ? It is, that in spite of reason — that divine spark 
of man's immortal nature — we take a malicious pleasure in 
awakening, within ourselves, chimerical and cruel delusions ; 
and, in defiance of her better suggestions, we still perpetuate 
our creative dream, to the utter exclusion of the voice of 
reality. 

But I repeat : the scene of Zurich pleased me. It was too 



MY CONFESSIONS. 69 



novel not to possess an indefinable charm for me : and I was 
then too young to be insensible to this governing — this over- 
powering influence ! a- 



CHAPTER II. 



I was received in the kindest manner, in Zurich, by the 
brother and intimate friends of Orelli, who had been previously 
informed by letter of my expected arrival, and had already ar- 
ranged for me to board in the house of a worthy bourgeois, 
named Holzalb. 

Within the space of only three days, I had obtained fifteen 
pupils, and but a short time elapsed, before I found myself 
compelled to devote thirteen hours a day to the duties of my 
profession. 

The first daily lesson I gave was from five till seven in the 
morning, to Orelli and his friend. 

At this period of my life, I never slept more than five hours, 
and had every morning to walk a mile and a half, before day- 
break, to the residence of my first pupils. 

It generally happened, that, before my arrival, I had ex- 
perienced three or four overthrows, owing to the extreme 
darkness of a winter's morning. But these slight hardships, 
so far from disconcerting me, or causing me to be dissatisfied 
with my present mode of life, seemed to add fresh excitement 
to the already buoyant feeling, caused by my success. The 
customary mode of remuneration at Zurich, was three crowns, 
or about twelve shillings English, for sixteen lessons. This 
was an adequate recompense, at a place, where two louis per 
month were quite sufficient, to secure a liberal and respectable 
maintenance : I was indeed perfectly satisfied, accustomed as 
I had been to the habits of my own country, where a single 
crown was the poor reward for twelve lessons ! 



70 MY CONFESSIONS. 

It was not long before I found myself, for the first time in my 
life, the possessor of a louts d' or ! 

Avarice, one of the satellites, so actively employed by Satan 
in securing his victims, was, however, no demon to me. Yet, 
in the contemplation of this, my first treasure, I felt as if 
I were invested with the iEgis which was to protect me for 
ever from the sting of poverty. . .that enemy, which has always 
presented itself to my imagination, armed with more terrors 
than death itself : it seemed to promise me independence, in 
a world of slavery : it was to me like the discovery of a long- 
sought and precious mine, whose treasures promised to be 
endless ; and now hope, for the future, sprang up within my 
heart ; and, with it, came that proud. . . .that exulting feeling, 
that not only for myself alone, but for my family, I might look 
forward to being enabled to provide a happy competency. 
Youth is the season of hope — it is its aliment, its beautiful, 
its ethereal support ; and such it was to me. 

The feeling of content, which springs from the acquisition 
of wealth procured by our own industry, is in itself a grati- 
fication superior to that felt in the enjoyment of hereditary 
possession. The produce of our own labour brings with it an 
unalloyed pleasure unknown to him, who, heir to wealth, 
knows neither its value nor its useful purpose ; who is equally 
ignorant of rightly employing it as a means of ensuring his 
present happiness, and through its powerful aid of anticipating 
future beatitude by fulfilling on earth the divine character of 
father and benefactor to him who needeth. 

Thou wilt then imagine, Silvio, that this louis d' or, thus 
obtained within less than two days, was at least gratifying to 
the feelings of the Florentine. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER III. 



It may be enquired, " what particular branch of knowledge 
enabled me to gain success as a teacher at Zurich ?" 

I will be explicit, and acknowledge that I actually found 
I was engaged in a profession, in some essential particulars 
of which I was ignorant. But I must do myself this justice, 
to add I have ever been endowed with a love of truth ; and 
scarcely did I become aware of my own inefficiency — which 
was not less severely scrutinized from my being my own and 
only judge — and the consequent disgrace in which I stood in 
case of discovery, than I bethought me of making an im- 
mediate and honourable retreat. Whether I carried my in- 
tention into effect or not, will shortly be seen. 

I was one morning requested to call upon a gentleman of 
the name of Fuseli, a relation of the celebrated painter, and 
himself a celebrated literary character of Zurich. He was about 
seventy years of age, and was then occupied in making an 
elegant translation of Petrarch into German. 

I entered the apartment, in which the good old man was 
seated, who, accosting me very graciously, told me he was 
desirous of reading Petrarch under my direction. 

" Petrarch!" I internally repeated with dread: "Alas! 
what a perilous moment for the unlucky Signor !" I knew 
Petrarch but by name : and now with dismay recollected 
having always heard him named as the most difficult of the 
classic authors. What was to be done ? 

Fuseli was anxious to receive his first lesson, and re- 
quested me to spare him an hour that morning. From this, 
however, I hastily excused myself, alleging the extreme 
pressure of my numerous appointments as an apology, at the 
same time fixing an hour for the morrow, when I should be 
more at leisure to attend him, 



7t MY CONFESSIONS. 

" Favour me then by just solving this difficulty for me, now/' 
said the old gentleman, still detaining me ; and presenting 
the dreaded book before me, he added, — " to-morrow we will 
commence Petrarch from his first sonnet." 

Escape was now quite impossible. Assuming, therefore, an 
air of extreme importance, to veil my secret misgivings, I pre- 
pared to solve what was equally a problem to myself as to 
my future pupil. 

The proposed difficulty was : — 

" Virgin ! whose beauteous eyes with sorrow burn 

(i To mark tK 1 impress on Him, thy holy One. 

" Oh ! from a sight so sacrilegious turn, 

" And deign to look upon Earth's wretched son, 

" Who, far from counsel human or divine, 

" Thus humbly prays thee to vouchsafe him thine." 

It was my good fortune to comprehend that the allusion 
referred to the five wounds of our Saviour; I immediately 
gave a French version of the passage, and, thus having 
established my reputation with Fuseli, I took my leave of him 
until the morrow. 

That evening, I, for the first time in my life, opened a 
volume of Petrarch, a book which has ever since proved to me 
a source of the greatest delight. My present object was, 
however, to render myself master of the part in which I 
proposed instructing my new pupil on the morrow. It was, 
therefore, with no very sanguine anticipations of deriving either 
pleasure or amusement from my difficult task, that I com- 
menced ; having previously endeavoured to arm myself with a 
patience that I did not spontaneously feel — thus making a vir- 
tue of necessity. 

I had hardly completed reading his first sonnet, when the 
charm of that great master of our poetry burst upon me, and 
filled me with an admiration, which my subsequent acquaintance 
with so many other authors has never diminished. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 73 

But, the influence this new study produced upon my young 
heart will be shown in the succeeding chapters. 



CHAPTER IV. 



Petrarch had now become the companion, the friend, of 
my solitary evenings. His presence, with that of his beautiful 
Laura, had changed my lonely apartment into a little paradise, 
in the tranquil enjoyment of which, I felt as though I could 
neither have envied the splendour of a court, nor craved the 
society of the most accomplished companions. 

" Oh ! why have I not earlier known thee ?" was my 
repeated exclamation, even before I had reached the period 
of that sonnet, in which Petrarch thus anticipates the feelings 
of posterity : — v 

" O Fortune, to my eyes thou bitter foe, 
Since thou to me a Laura hast not shown ! 
Oh ! would that later she had dwelt below, 
Or I had earlier an existence known !" 

Insensibly my own heart became purified by the loftiness of 
his sentiments. My contempt for women gradually softened, 
after a contemplation of the character of the beautiful, 
the virtuous Laura ; and I, too, pictured to myself a being 
who could realize my dreams of happiness — who could inspire 
me with a love independent of sensual feelings — such a 
love as man was permitted to feel in his first days of in- 
nocence. 

The poetical compositions of Petrarch, written during the life 
of Laura, occupied my attention for many weeks. Meanwhile 



74 

MY CONFESSIONS. 

my heart had selected its own — its exclusive Laura, though 
scarcely conscious of its choice. 

The heart is a book, the study of which man too often 
neglects — and why ? Because Truth, whose characters are 
alike clear and indelible, there presents to him a picture so 
little flattering to himself. 

Amongst my pupils at Zurich I numbered several young 
ladies, all equally amiable and agreeable. But upon one, one 
only — though at first, scarcely aware of the nature of my own 
feelings — I dwelt with the eye of affection. 

Young, surpassingly lovely, eminently talented ; one to 
whom all the literati of Zurich offered their homage ; dignified, 
yet inexpressibly gentle in her deportment ; a great admirer of 
whatever was beautiful, and good; a zealous christian, yet 
humble, and so unconscious of her own merit ! Such was 
the being, Pellico ! such the character of the woman who 
became the Laura of my imagination — of my heart. 

" The Laura," did I say ? — Alas ! yes, Pellico ! — I loved a 
married woman ! Ah, Silvio ! could the stages of existence 
be so reversed, that age might anticipate life's bright and 
thoughtless morning, and that youth were its last, its closing 
scene ! Then, indeed, how beautiful would be that brief sea- 
son ! arrayed in all that is most noble, and vigorous, impelled 
by virtue s dictates to act uprightly, and supported by 
judgment to direct us in our choice of good and ill ! — But in 
what then should we differ from the angels ? 

Alas ! Silvio, how can I extenuate the crime I have 
now confessed to thee ? I can but remind thee that I am a 
Florentine, and 1 was, then indeed, a Florentine alike in feel- 
ing and in habit !— Florence, that misguided city where love 
has degenerated into the meanest, the most despicable of 
passions, the debasing influence of which sullies and poisons 
youth's best feelings. That city where a wife is sanctioned by 
her husband in selecting from among her circle of acquaint- 
ances, a favoured e cavalier, ' who is to be considered her 
future companion. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 75 

A custom so degrading to man, one which levels him 
with the lowest in the scale of creation, is actually tole- 
rated by the Roman Catholic priests ; ' men who, entrusted 
with the awful charge of their fellow-beings' morality, 
are themselves hypocrites, and therefore maintain their 
victims in ignorance of the enormity of their sins. Not 
only do they absolve the adulterers, but, at the foot of 
the altar, side by side, they administer to them the sacra- 
ment, when an unconditional anathema should have pro- 
nounced their eternal separation. 

Oh, shame on thee, Florence ! most sinful, most miser- 
able city ! Thou, too, my birth-place ! How canst thou 
hope Heaven will again smile upon thee, or re- visit thee, for 
thy comfort, with even one lingering ray of thy past glory ? 
For ever in chains, for ever abject shalt thou be, for 
ever despised, for ever despicable in the eyes of those who 
now rule thee, and of those who may hereafter be thy 
rulers. 

Oh, could you understand that, which mine ears have so 
often harkened in the foreign land in which it is Heaven's will 
I should sojourn, you would recognize yourselves an abject and 
sordid race ! Yes, Florentines, you would recognize yourselves 
dwellers in a land, which, to the shame of its present inhabit- 
ants, recalls at every step the virtue, the courage, the refine- 
ment, the exalted mind, and the independence of their 
ancestors. 

Oh Florence ! thou the garden of the world ! thou the 
Athens of Italy ! how T dost thou profane that revered title ? thou 
shouldst be termed rather the shrine of infamy, at whose foot 
is alike sacrificed all that is noble and virtuous in thy nature ; 
where unblushing vice, not content with its own secret 
triumph, dares proclaim to the world its own villainy and 
guilt ! Thou, the garden of the world ? Thou, the Athens 
of Italy ? Oh, most corrupt stream which, in its fatal course, 
alike poisons each spot over which it flows ! 

e 2 



76 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Oh, my own unhappy Italy, when, and how, dost thou hope 
to be cast upon the shores of life, from the dread Leviathan who 
encloses thee within its jaws of death ? It is Heaven's power 
which has preserved thee living within the valley of death, and 
amidst thine infamy, by suffering thee to own a Pellico and a 
Manzoni for thy sons, as pledges of God's yet undying mercy ! 

God hath sworn it — " There shall be no peace to the 
sinner !" — and revolving worlds have never yet falsified this 
fearful oath. How then, canst thou, my country, hope to 
recover thy fallen greatness, — to re- appear Italy the noble, 
the beautiful — while thou slumberest in the fearful security of 
thy own base and despicable inclinations ? 

Virtue is a rock, against which all are cast away and 
perish who rest not their hope in her foundation. Scattered — 
no longer a nation — thou hast become a sport to all others, and 
an enemy to thyself. Thou mayst indeed fret at thy chains, 
but, shouldst thou yet be spared, thou shalt remain on earth a 
living phantom of thy former self; never canst thou, in thine 
impotency, shake from off thee the heavy yoke of slavery thou 
hast thyself provoked, until thou art once more become the 
noble, the virtuous, the christian Italy ! 

All thy secret conventions — -the concealed stiletto, which, in 
the hands of some/ew; noble-minded fanatics, and thousands of 
assassins, would still seek to avenge thy injuries — can do nought 
than draw yet closer the links of that foreign bond in which 
thou hast suffered thyself to become enthralled. Never again 
wilt thou behold thy country's standard waving proudly above 
thee ; but, in its stead, the contumely of the tyrant will pursue 
thee, and thou wilt mark, to thy terror, the gleaming axe of 
the executioner. 

Oh Florence ! Oh my country ! wilt thou never acknowledge 
that in thy crimes is thy slavery ? Oh that thou wouldst truly 
believe in the Father our God, in Jesus the Christ, in the 
Holy Spirit — the holy essence of Father and Son ! 

Add to such faith good works : and, as the walls of Jericho 



MY CONFESSIONS. 77 

fell to the earth, at the sound of the seventh trumpet ; and as the 
vast Assyrian army by the hand of the angel of the Lord be- 
came in one night a heap of slain, for presumptuously righting 
against God's favoured people, so shalt thou be freed from 
him who oppresses thee ; and the rod which has so long been 
thy scourge, God will of his own hand break in pieces ! 

Oh, Silvio ! mine eyes have become two fountains of tears, 
and my heart is full of sorrow. How I have loved my country 
thou, my divine friend, canst judge by my apostrophe, which 
springs spontaneously from the heart of one of her most 
loving sons, whose affection increases even with her calami- 
ties ; but God knows that I speak of it as it is 

" In all truth, 
And not through hatred or despite of man 1" 

Is not truth, from the lips of a son who adores her, more 
acceptable than flattery from strangers who hate her ? — and 
that they do hate her, I can no longer doubt, both for what 
she has been, for what she might still become, and for what 
they never, never will be, who now oppress her. 

Oh Silvio ! can we love our country and not confess 
our wrongs ? Can we love our country and suffer ourselves to 
remain blind to the hollow applause of those who caress her, 
that she may the more surely fall into their snare ? Can we 
encourage the unblushing libertinism which pervades it, and 
yet ask and hope to obtain freedom ; hope to become 
what we ought to be — Italians ? 



CHAPTER V. 



For a period of many years I had almost religiously 
preserved my vow, " never to become enslaved by the 
charms of woman." I had hitherto held them in contempt 



78 MY CONFESSIONS. 

and disdained their power. But the time had now come when 
I was compelled to acknowledge that love is the aliment of the 
human heart ; for so constituted is human life that, without 
love, it is but a negative existence. 

The youth who, in search of an honourable existence, 
abandons, reluctantly, his country, and friends, if his heart 
be warm as that of the Italian always is, naturally looks 
around for some object upon whom to bestow the fervour 
of his affections. If he be disappointed in his object, he 
has no other resource left but to look back in anguish upon 
those from whom he has parted, and — unless he be truly a 
christian at heart — he in despair becomes reckless, or, with 
blighted hopes, sickens, languishes and dies. 

Love had now become to me a necessity — it was not a choice. 
But, as in all that relates to the heart, the first impression is 
ever indelible, so the mingled feeling of hatred and contempt I 
had so long nourished for woman, operated so strangely upon 
my fancy, that, whilst I admitted my passion for one of a sex I 
could not esteem, it was some consolation to my pride, that I 
worshipped it in its most visionary guise — and sighed for an 
impossibility. 

My Laura combined the loveliness of Petrarch's idol with 
that which the latter never possessed — the talents of 
Corinna. 

Obstinately despising women, as I yet did, I could not be 
insensible to the charms of this admirable being. Had I been 
so, it would have argued little in favour of my taste or judg- 
ment. Still, though my whole soul seemed wrapt in the 
contemplation of her perfection, such was my pride, that it 
would not suffer me to acknowledge, even to myself, that I 
loved her. No ; — thus I reasoned to myself: et My heart has 
at length found an object upon which it may bestow its ardent 
affections — a shrine at which it may offer up its disinterested 
tribute of admiration." — The conviction that my love was pure 
and wholly unalloyed with any sensual feeling, for a time, 
satisfied the doubts of conscience. 



MY CONFESSION S» 79 

This was precisely the kind of love which, ignorant as I 
was of the holy spirit of Christianity, seemed the most con- 
sonant with my feelings. I loved a being of this earth—* 5 
beautiful, amiable and virtuous — whom I knew it to be out of 
my power to obtain. I adored and sought her affection with 
all the seeming truth and purity of devotion with which we 
pant for the angel's bliss in Heaven. But, oh ! just Creator ! 
keenly hast thou chastised me for my sin ! 

It was my custom to visit this lady every day, for the space 
of two hours, during which time we were engaged in the 
study of the Italian language and literature. Madame de 
Stael's Corinna was the book we selected for the purpose of 
rendering into Italian ; and Petrarch was the Italian classic, 
which we together read through several times, and which 
by frequently commenting upon, we knew at length by heart* 

I fancy I hear my readers exclaim — " These were dangerous 
studies for two young people of opposite sexes, each enthusi- 
astic, and each equally impressed with a strong attachment to 
poetry !" 

Such observations would be just, in part, but not wholly so, 
as a review of the merits of the works alluded to will show. 

Corinna, whilst under the inspiration of those talents with 
which she is so pre-eminently gifted, appears to us all that 
is noble and beautiful in woman. She is then an Italian; 
but Corinna in love, is transformed into a trifling French 
woman ; into one of those numberless, senseless coquettes, 
who, in order to invest their romantic passion with the illusions 
of poetry, would select a window as the effective scene of their 
exit, from which they may point out to their faithless lover a 
cloud, which opportunely shadows the moon's disc. To such 
a woman, as I have described my pupil to be, and to myself, 
who despised the sex, the love of Corinna, far from awakening 
our sympathies, became to us almost a subject of ridicule. It 
could not touch the heart. Rousseau's Heloise had been per- 
haps a more perilous subject for our contemplation 



so 



MY CONFESSIONS. 



" Love to the exalted mind its lesson swift conveys." 

But to such a mind, the love of Petrarch is like the sun's un- 
rivalled splendour, whose beams penetrate into the deepest 
recesses of the earth, where it would seem 

" Night ne'er again could smile itself to day." 

Like that great orb, too, it is hallowing in its nature ; for 
immeasurably elevated must be that sentiment which, whilst it 
awakens an earthly love, breathes into the soul the love of 
virtue. It was the talents, the modesty, the virtue of Laura, 
which combined to render her Petrarch's idol, rather than the 

" Golden locks in which the zephirs sported ; M 

therefore, to a well-regulated mind, the study of Petrarch can 
never be perilous, — unlike the story of Lancillotto selected 
by Paolo to read with the beautiful but unfortunate Francesca. 
It is however undeniable that, from the contemplation of 
Petrarch, the sentiment that now enthralled me, was 
awakening a passion which, in the first instance, I was not 
aware of, until its empire had become fixed beyond my con- 
trol. 



CHAPTER VI. 



On the 17th of August, eleven months after my arrival 
at Zurich, I went as usual to give my daily lesson to my lovely 
pupil. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 81 

She knew it was my birth- day ; and had prepared, in order 
to grace it, a bouquet of the choicest flowers, and three white 
cravats, which she herself had embroidered, as was the custom ' 
at that period. 

This elegant token was accompanied by the sweetest smile, 
and the kindest expressions of interest for me, as though she 
would dispel, if possible, the sadness she naturally imagined I 
should feel in celebrating my birth- day, for the first time in 
my life, from home. 

She said that " by the virtuous mind consolation was ever 
to be obtained, and the purest happiness ever to be enjoyed, 
though apart from the more immediate objects of its affection ; 
and that when God willed our separation from an earthly 
parent, He Himself would supply that loved title, and be to us a 
Father, the tenderest, the most compassionate, " 

While she thus discoursed, her seraphic countenance beaming 
with the soft expression of the most affectionate sister, I had 
remained mutely gazing on her gentleness — her loveliness ; 
but when she spoke to me of God, our mutual Creator, and I 
beheld those beautiful eyes filled with the tear of devotion and 
sympathy, I felt as though my heart would break. A voice 
from within, and not to be silenced, discovered to me the 
nature of my feeling towards her. It whispered me — " my 
peace had fled for ever." 

I could no longer command myself : I seized her hand invo- 
luntarily, and pressing it with a fervour of which I was almost 
unconscious, I had the temerity to exclaim — " Je vous ahne /" 
It was all I could — or dared utter. 

Oh ! whilst I live — whilst memory endures, never can I for- 
get the sudden, the indescribable revulsion my words and 
my action produced, in the expression of that lovely counte- 
nance. 

From being the pitying friend of a youth, separated from his 
home and his country, to seek an existence among strangers and 
in a climate so unlike his own ; from being the gentle companion 
of a youth whom she had, until now, deemed amiable and noble 

e 3 



82 MY CONFESSIONS. 

in feeling, she suddenly became the dignified asserter of her 
character as a woman of virtue, a faithful wife, a betrayed 
friend. 

She raised her head proudly, and turned aside her face from 
me ; then, disengaging her hand authoritatively from the firm 
grasp in which I still held it, she rose from her seat, and, 
with a cheek pale as marble, quitted the room without replying 
a word. 

Imagine, Silvio, the feelings of him she thus left alone ! A 
tempest, dark and overwhelming, seemed to have encompassed 
my soul, I knew that my peace of mind was torn for ever from 
me. I felt — if indeed my heart, at that tumultuous moment, 
could be said to be yet susceptible of any definite feeling but 
despair at the loss of my happiness — that my own sufferings , 
terrible as they were, yielded to the bitter conviction that I had 
grieved, deceived- — had sorely offended that noble and dear 
being, without whose esteem life would be to me but a blank, 
ic Just Heaven ! what have I done ?" were the only words I 
could utter in the anguish of that fearful interval of solitude. 

Dejected, humbled, overwhelmed, I now awaited but the ap- 
pearance of the husband of my much injured friend, or one of 
the domestics, requiring; me to leave the house. I, however , 
still lingered, and for the space of iive and twenty minutes , 
which appeared to me so many centuries, I endured all the 
agony of anxious suspense. 

My feelings had at length attained their highest power of 
endurance, when suddenly the door opened, and my beautiful 
pupil again made her appearance. 

Conscience, whose bitter reflections so promptly punish those 
who disregard the laws of honor and virtue, had conveyed 
to my features an intense expression of remorse, of self- 
condemnation and sorrow, as I now bent my eyes upon 
those of my companion. 

She had, however, recovered her usual calmness ; and 
looking at me seriously, but benignly, with an air of almost 
regal dignity, resumed her accustomed seat. A silence of some 



MY CONFESSIONS. 83 

minutes succeeded. At length I had the courage to address 
her. 

" You are angry, madam." & 

" I am not angry," she replied ; " but distressed and as- 
tonished." 

At these words, tears rushed to my eyes. 

" Nay, calm yourself," she said, in the sweetest tone, per- 
ceiving my emotion. 

" How is it possible," I rejoined ; " can you ever forgive 
me ?" 

" That will depend upon yourself." 

" What are the conditions ?" 

" That you will again let me think of you as a man of honor 
and virtue — that you will become the Guido I once knew you 
—my respected friend," she added, in a tone of solemnity. 

At these words, my heart revived. I rose — I spoke not ; 
but, bowing my head respectfully, without once looking at her, 
I quitted the apartment. 



CHAPTER VII. 



Though somewhat appeased, the tumult of my mind had far 
from subsided. I quitted the apartment and the house ; and 
finding it impossible, that day, to attend to the remainder of 
my lessons, I left the city, whose atmosphere seemed to 
suffocate me, that I might seek a fresher air in which I could 
breathe more freely. 

I traversed the shores of the lake, overwhelmed with a 
torrent of reflection, and yet almost unconscious of my move- 
ment, though I must have accomplished miles during my 
walk ! Indeed, such was the delirium of my feelings, that 
there were moments in which I scarcely knew where I was, or 
what I was doing. Everything seemed changed to me ; — the 



84 MY CONFESSIONS. 

mountains, the valley, the trees, the lake, men, animals, the 
air— yes, even the air, and the sky itself, seemed that day to 
have assumed a different aspect. 

But alas ! it was not they — it was I — I alone who had 
changed ! The utterance of that fatal sentence : " Jevous aime, !i 
constituted a crime, that years of penance would not be sufficient 
to expiate : and from that hour my penance began ! Evening 
had far advanced, and still beheld me wandering restlessly 
through the country. At length I sought my home — I en- 
tered my little apartment, and, with surprise, saw upon the 
table a small packet addressed to myself. I hastily broke the 
seal, and discovered its contents to be the three embroidered 
cravats and the little bouquet — my birth-day gifts — with a 
letter in these words : 

" Signor Guido, 

" The few hours, which have elapsed since our interview of 
this morning, must have sufficed to recall you to yourself, and 
to have made you reflect upon what has occurred. Your own 
heart must have already acknowledged, that the conduct which 
duty now imposes upon me, is to refuse seeing you again — yes, 
for ever. 

tc This step to which duty would compel me, you must be 
aware, could not be taken without awakening suspicion in the 
mind of my husband, to whose happiness I would sacrifice, 
every wish and every secret of my heart. I will suppose him 
already acquainted with your conduct, and to have evinced 
sufficient forbearance not to expose you to others : yet, how, 
think you, in so small a town as this, could you explain the 
abrupt cessation of your visits to us ? the real cause of which, 
were it discovered, or even suspected by your scholars, would 
effectually ruin your professional prospects at Zurich. 

" I must leave you to reflect upon the situation, to which 
vou have reduced yourself. I assure you my heart bleeds for 
vou, when I think what must be your own fearful forebodings. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 85 

M Oh, Guido ! what exalted hopes had I not formed of you, 
— vou who had seemed to me so good, so virtuous ! Did I not 
love you as a brother ? — Why, then, did you deceive me ? why * 
mercilessly destroy the hope I had in you ? Can I esteem you 
now p — You have had the folly to love me, and have dared to 
tell me so. No ; it were impossible for me to esteem one who 
has not cared to respect the object of his love. Should I not 
have rendered myself despicable in your eyes, if, in defiance 
of every law, human and divine, I had lent an ear to the 
avowal of your unworthy passion ? Just Heaven ! how was I 
deceived in relying upon the exaltation of your heart ; how 
changed to me is the " Guido" of yesterday from him I now 
contemplate ! Oh, Guido ! Guido ! into what an abyss would 
you have precipitated yourself ! — the just wrath of Heaven is 
suspended above you — one word, one syllable from me, and 
you are crushed to the earth for ever. 

" What would Cleofe say to you ?— your own Cleofe — 
she, who had formed so exalted an estimate of your character, 
were she to behold you returning to your native land in 
poverty, and that poverty the offspring of your own folly ? 
Think you, she would still bestow on you that love, which 
she hitherto so deeply felt for you ? Alas ! methinks I see 
this part of my letter well nigh effaced by your tears : but, Guido ! 
from what source have they arisen?— from the conscious- 
ness of your having offended a beneficent Being, from whose 
creative power so many channels of happiness have been opened 
to you on earth — such a promise of future bliss in Heaven ! 
Do they spring from repentance at the indignity you have 
this day offered me, and to my husband, too, who has ever 
been to you a kind and faithful friend ? — Are they derived 
from the feeling of no longer meriting the protection of 
Heaven, the respect of your fellow-men, or your own 
esteem ? 

" If these are the secret springs of your sorrow, prostrate 
yourself, I beseech you, — yes, this moment, humble yourself at 
the foot of the Cross : implore the pardon of the God of all 



86 MY CONFESSIONS. 

goodness — and I too will pardon you ; yes, I promise you, I 
solemnly declare that I will pardon you. Oh, Guido ! in pity to 
yourself, suffer not the youthful plant, from which so much is 
hoped, to be consumed by the never-dying worm of sin, that 
destroys inexorably ; — but become once again a man of 
honour : be again to me the friend, the brother you once were. 
Alas ! would that you may listen to my counsel. Although I 
have numbered but a very few years more than yourself, yet 
how much more of the world have I seen, how much better 
have understood the things which belong to it ! But you 
have had much sorrow, and you are still young and 
inexperienced. Oh ! that Heaven would bless me by turning 
your ear unto my counsel ! would that I might be permitted, 
through His help, to guide you in the path of virtue. Then 
should I indeed hold my existence as Heaven's own gift, and 
resign it without a sigh, conscious it had been spent in the 
service of my Creator ! 

" V" 

P.S. " I send you the three cravats and the flowers you 
forgot to take this morning. Be calm, and be wise. I shall 
expect you to-morrow at the usual hour." 



CHAPTER VIII. 



That Being, by whose power alone a morning of bright- 
ness and joy may succeed a night spent in mortal misery, had 
willed that tranquillity and repose should close my tempestuous 
and wretched day. 

To comprehend the goodness of his Creator, man has but 
to feel himself the object of it. Never does God's bounty shine 
more triumphantly upon His creature than when, in the hour of 
His wrath, He showers the healing manna into the soul of 



MY CONFESSIONS. 87 

man instead of the fire, which had consumed him, re-illumining 
within him the hope which despair had well nigh extinguished, 
by a mercy which surpasses the imagination of man to con- * 
ceive ! 

The letter of this most virtuous of women was a balm to 
the self-inflicted poisonous wound of the irreligious man. 

Unsustained by his Creator, man is but dust : his thoughts 
— his works, but foolishness. Temptation assails him. His 
rebellious spirit, or, as he would vainly term it, his philosophy, 
arms him in his own defence. Scorning to fly from the evil, 
he presumptuously opposes his own unassisted strength to the 
combat, and thence ensues his shameful fall. 

Left to himself, man is as incapable of escaping from the snare 
Satan spreads around him, as is the scorpion from the blazing 
circle in which his tormentors have enclosed him. At its 
first consciousness of the unusual and unnatural heat, the 
reptile cautiously moves round, in search of an escape from 
the threatening flame. He finds it not. With increasing 
torment, he extends his circling movement, but finds that he only 
approaches nearer the fatal objeGt of his terror. Had he, in 
apparent humility of purpose, crouched immoveably in the 
centre, to await the extinguishing of the devouring flame, 
or to exhaust the patience of his persecutors, he had conquered. 
But no : the fearful element gains on him from without, whilst 
from within he has now to contend with the gathering of his 
own fiery passions ; until at length, rushing in despair into 
the midst of the blazing pile, he inflicts upon himself a mortal 
wound from his own envenomed sting, and expires by his own 
poison. 

Such is the irreligious man in the hour of temptation, 
Death encircles him on every side. His vain presumption in 
supposing himself capable of confronting it alone, without the 
assistance of his Maker, withers for ever that which is most 
lovely in his spirit — his hope of a blessed immortality ! whilst 
the issue of this fearful conflict, never has been, or ever shall 
be other than defeat, shame, and death. 



SB MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Such were my reflections during this eventful night which 
thus wore away in thought and prayer. Oh ! how willingly 
does God accept the prayer of youth ! how unlike is it to the 
prayer of maturity ! Between the infant spirit and its Creator 
there seems an almost imperceptible distance. Every feeling 
is gratitude and hope, in the bright morning of existence. 
Every thought of the heart breathes love towards the Being, 
who supports, cherishes and acknowledges us for His own 
children. But, as age advances, how does that distance 
increase ! It becomes immeasurable — until, at length, only, 
by the miracle of a Saviour's mediation, dare we hope, that 
beyond the dark cloud of sin which separates us from our 
heavenly Father, there is yet a brighter path that will lead us 
to the paradise of the elect. 

Morning at length broke in upon my reflections : the hour 
of twelve arrived, and I once more found myself in the presence 
of my offended friend. 

" Good morrow, Guido," she said, " advancing nearly to 
the door to meet me, and taking my hand, with that air of 
dignified affability which seemed to say 

" Honour and virtue, like twin sisters, crown'd, 
Dwell in my breast : no baser thought is found 
To live — where once that sacred tie is bound." 

" You are w T ell — you are tranquil I trust." she added : and 
without giving me time to reply to her questions which suc- 
ceeded each other rapidly, she continued with more so- 
lemnity of manner, fixing her eye stedfastly on me : " Guido, 
we must forget for ever the events of yesterday, and let us 
pray heaven, that the great enemy of mortal friendship may 
never again step between us to sully the purity of a sentiment 
which might, otherwise, endure unchanged till death.' ' 



MY CONFESSIONS. 89 

" Till death !" I repeated with all the ardor of a youth, who, 
prostrated for the first time by the enemy of mankind, feels 
himself yet re- animated to support the struggle. 

We seated ourselves, as usual, at a little table, opposite a 
window which opened most delightfully upon the lovely valley 
of Zurich. 

Our morning's study was Petrarch's beautiful canzone, be- 
ginning, " Italia mia." 

Oh, Silvio ! would that thou hadst been with us — thou, 
who (unlike myriads of our self-styled liberals, whose principal 
aim is their own aggrandisement), desirest the good of thy 
country alone, the welfare of Italy ! what interesting, what 
encouraging sentiments wouldst thou have heard from my 
virtuous friend, who herself born free, generously desired to see 
the Italians occupy their ancient station amongst other nations ; 
a people whom she pronounced, even in their present degen- 
erate state, deserving the respect of nations, and worthy of a 
happier destiny. 

" Alas, Guido I" she would often say to me, " your coun- 
trymen are slaves, only, because it is their will to remain so. 
Did they form but a united country, they would become, 
not in the slow course of years, but in a few brief months, 
the gem of nations, the ornament, the glory, the boast of 
Europe ! And what prevents the accomplishment of this 
desired object ? the absence of physical courage to support 
the sight of blood, which, alas ! situated as you are, it is 
imperative upon you to shed, if ever you would hope to be- 
come free in your day." These and a thousand other things 
she said : 



" Much more she added, but its silence now, 
E'en like its utt' ranee then, were eloquence." 

Still more fascinated, I took my leave with a tranquil con- 
science, and at peace with heaven. 



90 MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER X. 



Upon quitting the house, I walked forth into the country. 
With what different feelings, did I now pursue my way, to 
those which had agitated me yesterday. 

The sun shone most brilliantly in a heaven scarcely less 
ethereal than that of Italy, whilst within my heart dwelt a 
paradise I could hardly comprehend. It seemed as though 
God once more smiled upon me, and thus already amply re- 
compensed my desire to become virtuous, by awakening within 
me that peaceful spirit which man can neither give nor take 
away — which the world knows not, and which can never be 
tasted within its vortex. 
I shall be asked : 

" Did you still love the Zuricker ?" 
" Yes :— I loved her still." , 

" In what degree : — More, or less than before ?" 
' ' Neither more, nor less ; but yet with a very different 
feeling !" 

That love which craves the possession of some beloved object, 
was no longer my ruling sentiment. My heart dwelt not now 
in adoration of the golden locks and the graceful form of 
the beautiful Zuricker ; but, beyond this mortal perfection, it 
bowed in worship to a spirit, which seemed but descended from 
heaven to teach man the love of his Creator through His 
creature, whose heavenly destiny I seemed able to foresee. 
On earth, she dwelt but as a celestial vision, which, 
touched by the hands of the libertine or terrified by the sound 
of an impure thought, would have vanished for ever from 
amongst unkindred spirits, like the ignis fatuus at the pursuit 
of the fool, or as a dream is dispelled by the hum of 
an insect* 

Never does virtue appear so clothed with celestial attributes 
as when it manifests itself in a beautiful woman ! Its effect 



MY CONFESSIONS. 91 

upon all, within the influence of her power, is then irresistible ! 
Even the evil one is compelled with man to admire, to render 
homage to its irresistible charm. When first Satan beheld & 
Eve encompassed by her garb of innocence — 

" Her every air 
Of gesture, or least action, overaw'd 
His malice, and with rapine sweet, bereaved 
His fierceness of the fierce intent it brought; 
That space the evil one abstracted stood 
From his own evil, and for the time remainM 
Stupidly good, of enmity disarmed, 
Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge." 

What marvel then, that the love which animated me to-day 
was no longer the feeling of yesterday ! But might there not 
be another cause for the change which had taken place in me ? 
I was still very young. From my tenderest years I had ever 
loved virtue rather than evil, while, from the peculiarity of 
my education, I had, until a comparatively advanced age, 
seen or understood but little of the world. It is true, I had 
become somewhat infected by the universal contagion of vice, 
but my wound was but as yet superficial: the heart's blood 
had not been tainted. That heart, nurtured as it had been 
so many years by the hand of Providence, could not but 
betray some repugnance at the first immoral feast vice had 
presented to it. My senses were not so inevitably steeped 
in the oblivious gulf of iniquity, but that virtue's fragrant 
incense would oft interpose its salutary influence. The re- 
ligious principles, which had been instilled into my early 
youth, and which had now only slept during the temporary 
delirium of passion, Would soon awaken at the charmed voice 
of virtue, whose presence, like that of heaven's brightest orb, 
dispels the false illusions of life, by drawing from before our 
eyes the veil which had seemed to shroud us from eternity, 
and restores to us the truth it had hitherto obscured* 

This then was the effect of my admiration of that virtue 



92 MY CONFESSIONS. 

which shone forth so brilliantly in my beautiful Zuricker. 
I desired but to approach within the sphere of such per- 
fection, to become an object of regard to such a being, while 
that feeling of awe, which a beautiful and virtuous woman 
ever inspires in those who approach her, took possession 
of me — that heavenly guard, which an exalted mind sheds 
around it, making beauty appear yet more lovely from its 
own reflection. 

Now that I knew how to appreciate her, in her presence 
I felt 

" Prostrate my spirit at her virtues shrine," 

and venerating that living virtue, as the enlightened Roman 
Catholic adores its memory, in the image of the living taber- 
nacle which once enshrined it. 

It was sufficient happiness for me to be in her presence ; yet, 
when I quitted her, not a shade of sorrow clouded my mind. 
When distant from her, I felt that to survive a separation 
from a beloved object was 

(k The lover's privilege 

Whose chain no longer mortal 
Bears a stamp divine ;*" 

whilst during that separation I pursued my ordinary occu- 
pations, looking back in remembrance upon her image only 
as that of a guardian angel, who had left her heavenly abode 
to guide me through the Land of the Stranger. 

Virtue, therefore, was the basis of an attachment, which 
was as reciprocal, as, by the support of religious feelings, 
it was destined to be lasting. Religion was, with my beautiful 
friend, a first principle, a basis which equally exalts our 
admiration of whatever is lovely, and raises our self-respect ; 
a sufficient recompense to all who pursue the path of rectitude. 

This period of my existence might be termed a paradise 
on earth ; for in its enjoyment neither vice, nor the gratification 
of the senses had any share. 

But is it difficult to remain virtuous in this world ? 



MY CONFESSIONS. 93 

Not so ; — nothing is more easy to those who sincerely desire 
it. Their prayer will be granted ! Even were our Creator deaf 
to the prayers, the sorrows, and the importunities of His crea- 
tures — were this life but a dream, which death, in dispelling, 
should extinguish for ever — were paradise and the infernal 
regions bat the imagined picture of the Poet, or the fabrication 
of an impostor's brain — even then, in a sphere so limited, and 
so polluted by mortal folly and iniquity, virtue would still be 
the god of our idolatry, the flower, the sweet incense of 
our existence ; while vice would remain, its corruption, its 
destroyer. 

There are doubtless thousands now — as there have ever 
been, and ever will be — who will resolutely deny the existence 
of that pure affection — that Platonic love, which I conceived 
for the beautiful Zuricker. By such, my conduct and motives 
will be harshly judged, from not being understood : and I 
myself, when recurring to this period of my friendship with 
my now sainted friend, grieve at having exposed her, as 
I mast have done, to even the breath of human censure ; 
the world's opinion is mostly uncharitable. 

The longer I live, the firmer is my conviction, that women 
must respect the world's opinion — man may defy it. 

Experience is not allotted to youth. God who orders every 
thing in His wisdom, causes the young flower to expand mid 
blindness and uncertainty — to what end, He alone knows ! 
But He will be ever merciful to His helpless creation ! 



CHAPTER XL 



Had I not, at this period of my existence, been asso- 
ciated with two beings, who loved me for myself alone, 
with the purest, the most disinterested friendship, I had 
infallibly become a decided misanthrope. I was born with 



94 MY CONFESSIONS. 

a heart full of affection and anxiously soliciting the love 
of all those around me : but alas ! the yearnings of my 
heart were thwarted even in the cradle ; and love was 
denied me in that quarter, where the voice of nature calls 
most loudly for its exercise. 

Immured within the four walls of a gloomy prison, thou, 
dear Pellico ! couldst yet recall to thyself, at will, thy lost 
happiness, by dwelling on the memory of the bright hours 
thou hadst felt, the sweet enjoyment thou hadst tasted during 
the thirty years, which had preceded thy captivity. Thou 
couldst gild the gathered gloom with a beam of an imagined 
light, and people the solitude with the beings of thine own 
creation. Thou couldst exchange the bright wings of poetry 
for the holier garb of Religion — poetry — that illusive divinity, 
who, in the helplessness of misfortune, urges us to despair 
in the consciousness, that 

" That is superior woe, which, in our grief, 
Recalls the memory of departed joy.' , 

Thou hast felt gratitude for the uninterrupted spring-time 
of thy existence, which God had so crowned for thee with 
flowers ; and thou hast formed a miraculous haven in that 
tempestuous hour, when man, in the refinement of his bar- 
barity, seemed to league with the elements for thy destruction, 
and, when, in the extremity of thy despair, thou hadst nearly 
found the instrument of annihilation in thine own hand. God 
be praised that He averted so fearful a consummation ! 

Such has not been my destiny ! It is true, actual imprison- 
ment is not the theme of my complaint : but my incarceration 
has been virtually yet more cruel than thine own. Exile, 
— what can be worse ? — a voluntary, though necessary exile, 
is indeed a bitter imprisonment. There is the gloom of soli- 
tude, the stillness of the grave, the sterility of the desert. 
' ' As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that 
wandereth from his place." 



MY CONFESSIONS. 0/5 

In whatever country the stranger may seek a home — be the 
climate milder and softer than his native sky ; be the in- 
habitants more amiable, more admirable than his fellow- 
countrymen ; it is not the superior luxuriance of nature, nor 
even the humanity and kindness of men that can reconcile 
him, if he be a man of sensibility, to a residence in a foreign 
land, nor prevent him from looking back upon the spot of his 
birth, with a sigh at his banishment, and the feeling that he is 
separated from all his natural ties. 

" What findest thou in thy country thus to venerate ?*' 
demanded Xerxes of Themistocles, 

" Ay, all my Lord ! 

The ashes of my ancestors, 

The sacred laws and tutelary Gods, 

The tongue in which my infant thought was clothed,— 

Customs which grew with me where T have felt 

The sweat upon my brow, and reaped the applause 

And mingled in the glory of the hour — 

'Tis there my native earth, its hollowed trunks, 

The sky, the ruined walls, the moss-grown stones !" 

Hence it is, that notwithstauding the hospitality and the 
respect I have ever experienced from the English, during my 
residence amongst them, and the admiration I have felt 
for their character, ever since I have become closely acquainted 
with them, I have never been able to dispossess myself of the 
feeling, that the plant, which had flourished vigorously beneath 
its native sky, languishes in a foreign soil, and assumes but a 
dwarfish growth in a clime less genial. 

If I look back upon the years which have preceded my 
already protracted exile, how few hours of happiness reward 
my retrospection ! If I dwell upon the present hour, neither 
storms nor tempests disturb it. But alas ! what a sunless 
atmosphere envelops it, and what a hopeless morrow seems 
about to rise on me ! If I look to a future — but no !- — let me 
not seek to penetrate beyond a sphere, where all is im- 



Q6 MY CONFESSIONS. 

penetrably wrapt in mystery, but, leaving that future in the 
hands of my Creator, study to improve the present moment, in 
whatever relation it may be. Let me not sigh for the fruit- 
fulness of Egypt, in this my present desart, but bowing the 
daily aspirations of my heart to the protecting eye of Pro- 
vidence, I will endeavour to walk on, in the spirit of faith, 
towards the promised land. 

But to resume, my dear Pellico. The memory of the 
two angelic friends, who have illumined my path in a world, 
where a false glare supplies the place of a purer light, 
is the spell — the magic spell which enchains me still to my 
fellow-men : it is the link which still unites me to humanity — 
the talisman which has hitherto led me, and I trust ever 
will lead me, to love and compassionate my species. 

Cleofe — my sister Cleofe — was the first being, who in 
my early days of innocence and suffering, presented to me the 
perfection of heavenly consolation, in her disposition of 
sweetness, indulgence and affection. Surrounded by a large 
family, and all amiably disposed, yet not one of them seemed 
comparable to Cleofe, She alone seemed created with that 
heavenly feeling, that would take to itself the thorn, in order 
that the object of its affection might possess but the flower. 

In after years, the husband of my beautiful Zuricker was 
the second, who realized my visions of human perfection. 
But of him I will speak more at length, in the regular 
course of mv narration. 



CHAPTER XII. 



There never has yet appeared on earth, nor do I think 
there ever will exist, a man capable of equalling woman in 
the intensity of love — that true, profound, disinterested and 
unchangeable sentiment, which; ever constant in affliction, 




<S3L3E©l!Fig ©(gpj&lEik 



^^•ILIL 



Dt avm on S ion e by W. P. Sh erio ck . 



MY CONFESSIONS. 97 

sweetens every bitterness of life, and, amid clouds and dark- 
ness, always discovers some bright opening, through which 
may be introduced the sweet sunshine of hope. Thousands, 
ay, thousands are the objects to which the life of man 
is directed — innumerable the spheres, round which his destiny 
revolves. But in one — only one should be the course of 
a woman — in one only sphere should she consecrate her 
powers. Affection is that sphere. Affection should be the 
rallying point of her existence. Forsaking that, a woman 
is degraded from one. of her best attributes, unobtrusiveness, 
and ceasing to be what Heaven and nature had created her, 
she becomes despicable in the eyes of wisdom — and after 
fluttering for a while before the dazzled eyes of the multitude, 
whose applause can but little satisfy a noble mind, she dwindles 
into an object of derision and dislike. 

In infancy my affections were equally bestow r ed upon rela- 
tives and associates ; but it was not so w T ith Cleofe at that 
period. Though feeling a proper regard for every member 
of our numerous family, the full force of her love was concen- 
trated in one individual — and that was her brother Guido. 
And why was I the especial object of her tenderness ? — Because 
she saw me in the days of my innocence persecuted and 
unhappy : and this is woman — this a woman's heart — this 
the tabernacle of true affection ! 

Cleofe was in person about the middle height, and nature 
had moulded her figure in the most symmetrical proportions. 
Her ample brow was shaded by hair dark as ebony, whilst her 
black eye spoke eloquently from beneath her yet darker eye- 
brows the exalted feelings of her mind. 

The mouth, which seems to contend w T ith the eye in marking 
the expression of the human countenance, w r as in Cleofe a 
perfect feature ; and her voice, 

" Breath'd a music such as angels speak." 

Endowed with an ardent adoration of her Creator, with an 

F 



98 MY CONFESSIONS. 

enthusiastic reverence for all that is beautiful in nature, pos- 
sessing a lively genius, and unequalled among the " dilettanti 9 
of Italy, both as an " improvvisatrice," and as a perfect mu- 
sician, Cleofe added to these the rare virtue of an unwilling- 
ness for display. 

Although I was extremely young at this period, Cleofe 
was never permitted to console her young friend and brother 
by word or action. 

But the day arrived on which Cleofe was free to tell me and 
prove to me that she loved me, and to evince, by every action, 
how much dearer to her was my happiness than her own. A 
volume would be insufficient to relate her innumerable instan- 
ces of friendship for me ; one or two of which I will how- 
ever relate. 

I had been but a year at Zurich, when, on the eve of 
Easter- Sunday, I received a letter from my father; it was 
without signature, and terminated with these words : "I 
cannot write any more — I am deprived of light." It 
was from II Bargello — the prison at Florence — whence 
my father dated his letter ; and I farther gathered from his 
expressions that he was confined there for debt, whilst he had 
to fear, that not only was he to be deprived of his liberty, but 
that accusations were about to be preferred against him involv- 
ing his honor. I did not hesitate a moment. — My excellent 
father imprisoned and his honor attacked ! — My resolution was 
soon taken. I hastened to the friend who had in his posses- 
sion the little fortune I had realized during my sojourn at 
Zurich. I threw my father's letter before him, and begged him 
to dispatch immediately to Cleofe all the money he had belong- 
ing to me. This my friend opposed ; he represented to me 
the imprudence of thus suddenly depriving myself of the 
savings I had accumulated at the expense of so much exertion, 
by giving up which, I should be exposed, in the event of sick- 
ness, or some unforeseen accident, to the humiliation of 
imploring succour in a foreign land, or compelled to suffer the 
privations of poverty. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 99 

But these words were scattered to the winds. I persisted 
in my request, and he, at length, promised me to write imme- 
diately to Florence to procure my father's release. 

It is here necessary that I should inform my readers, that, 
by one of those contradictions of nature, which humanity so 
often evinces, Cleofe had become the affianced wife of a man, 
in my estimation, the most unworthy of herself. It would be 
but wasting time to sully my pen in attempting his portrait. 
His character is the very reverse of that I have described 
Cleofe's to be. 

Humiliating and melancholy contrast ! On the one side, a 
creature born to adorn humanity by her celestial and endearing 
virtues ; on the other, a being without one quality to render 
him tolerable in the eyes of his fellow-men ! — It was seldom I 
ventured to express my contempt of this individual, so un- 
fortunately dear to Cleofe, for it is always somewhat hazardous 
for a third person to interfere on a subject of such delicacy. 
But with Cleofe's exalted mind, Reason easily asserted her 
powerful sway ; and, although she was still biassed by her 
inclination, I generally succeeded in making her sensible how 
much she wronged herself in loving so unworthy an object ; 
and our conferences always ended by her promising me to dis- 
card him at their next interview. 

I have read of a reptile, whose looks exert such fascinating 
power over its destined prey, that the wTetched victim be- 
comes incapable of withdrawing its eye from the fatal influence ; 
impelled by a mysterious attraction, it approaches nearer 
and nearer, and, at length, falls within the expectant fangs 
of its destroyer ! 

Such was the influence possessed by that man over my sweet 
sister — my only — my best friend — an influence beguiling as 
that of the serpent upon Eve. Her very soul seemed 
enervated by his contagion: her very resolution faded into 
uncertainty at his appearance. 

This contradiction in Cleofe is a problem which I can only 
solve satisfactorily by the following interpretation. 

F 2 



100 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Love is a feeling begotten within ourselves , and bearing no 
relation to any thing apart from ourselves. Love is the 
extatic dream of the soul. It is the offspring of the heart, 
and is adorned by it with every imaginary loveliness, and in- 
vested with its own virtues and inclinations. Love is, indeed, 
a second self of the soul ; and that tangible form which we 
imagine so much the object of our admiration, is nought else 
but the shadow of that beautiful ideal image of our own heart's 
creation. Thus it is that, in the absence of the beloved indi- 
vidual, the soul ever converses more freely with its own idol ; 
and, though seeming to mourn that absence, it finds more 
happiness in the enjoyment of its own creative image, the 
actual presence of which is ever disclosing something of reality, 
and, consequently, dispelling the beautiful illusion. But, as 
every dream of life is evanescent, and, like approaching 
shadows dissipate at the touch, Matrimony — which is the 
dawn of reality — opens our eyes, and discloses the truth.— 
Association gradually divests the loved object of each fantastic 
attribute with which imagination had clothed it, and displays 
it, however amiable it may be in disposition and feature, in 
the ordinary guise of mortality. 

It was at this period Cleofe received a letter from my banker 
at Zurich, informing her that her brother had desired the 
whole of his property to be deposited into her hands, for the 
liberation of his father, Signer Gaetano Sorelli not having 
specified to his son the sum for which he was imprisoned. 

This intelligence threatened to involve Cleofe in some 
difficulty, from her limited powers of action in her present 
situation. At that time women of any standing in society 
seldom appeared alone in the streets of Florence. — Cleofe had 
no mother : her father was in prison ; and she dared take no 
step, nor, indeed, scarcely harbour a thought, without com- 
municating it to her betrothed lover. 

The consciousness that she possessed the means of liberating 
her father, whem she adored, came to her associated with the 
image of him who had procured her so great a happiness, and 



MY CONFESSIONS. 101 

that individual was her brother, who in pursuit of an honorable 
livelihood, was compelled to pass his days in a strange land, a 
friendless exile. ► 

She, therefore, resolved upon appropriating only what was 
necessary for the accomplishment of my principal object, and 
purposed to remit immediately the whole of the remainder to 
her exiled brother. She rejected the idea of distributing 
amongst my brothers, as I had requested, a portion of the 
surplus that might arise, after effecting my father's liberation, 
and of retaining for herself the yet larger sum I had destined 
for her. Finally she decided upon concealing the whole tran- 
saction from her affianced husband, who would have com- 
pelled her to accept a gift in which he might participate. 

The conflicting interests of father, brother, and lover produced 
a powerful contention in the mind of Cleofe, and it grieved 
her the more from the certainty she felt of her inability to con- 
tent them all, whilst from one, if not two of them, she must 
look for actual displeasure. 

In this delicate and responsible situation, and from which 
she expected such painful consequences, Cleofe sent for one of 
her aunts. 

Upon her arrival, she gave her to understand that an affair 
of great importance, involving the interests of her father and 
Guido, compelled her to apply to the banker Orsi, and accord- 
ingly solicited her aunt to accompany her thither. 

On arriving at the banker's, he repeated the orders to 
consign to her her brother's property, which exceeded, by two- 
thirds the sum she would require in the liberation of her father. 
For an instant Cleofe enjoyed the consciousnesss that she was 
at that moment free to execute that pious duty : in the next 
she shuddered at the reflection that, even at that moment, 
Guido was probably without support. 

" You will not betray my confidence, Signer Orsi !" she 
exclaimed suddenly to the banker, and, scarcely waiting for his 
promise, she related to him every particular of her position 
with regard to her father, to her brother, and to her lover. 



102 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" My dear Signora," replied Orsi, " it is doubtless your 
first duty to pay the sum intended for your father's enlarge- 
ment; but your second, and one equally imperative, is to 
consult the welfare of your brother, by not revealing, either to 
your father or lover, the circumstance of your possessing the 
remainder. With your permission, I will retain it in my 
hands, and should you have the courage to desire me to remit 
it to my correspondent at Zurick, I will write to him without 
delay, to restore it to Signor Guido." 

e( I thank you for your counsel/' replied my dear sister, 
" and, I pray you, return it immediately to our Guido. I 
shall know how to keep my secret from my father and 
lover." 

After the first delirium of joy and gratitude, at feeling him- 
self once more at liberty, had subsided, succeeded the desire of 
knowing the particulars of his emancipation, as is natural with 
one, who, though released from actual danger, still knows him- 
self to be poor and unsupported. My father therefore begged 
Cleofe to relate to him the circumstances of my interference, 
and also to tell him how much I had advanced for his relief. 

" My dearest father," replied Cleofe, " you are absolved 
from your debt; you are restored to your children; and Guido 
is your liberator. Remain satisfied with this conviction, and, 
I beseech you, suffer me to preserve for ever silence on this 
subject/' 

My father was too good to refuse his acquiescence in" 
her wish, although he remained persuaded that his son Guido 
had rendered him much more assistance than she was willing 
he should become acquainted with. 

It was a less easy task to persuade or secure the concurring 
silence of Cleofe's intended husband. He insisted upon a 
detailed explanation of the whole transaction. Cleofe hesitated ; 
and at length, through her noble and spirited refusal, the dia- 
mond was separated from the clogging ore. The gem assumed 
its proper value, and shone forth in its native light, as though 
ashamed of the veil which had so long eclipsed its lustre : it 



MY CONFESSIONS. 103 

blazed forth with redoubled splendour, like a star, which, issuing 
from a long obscuring cloud, appears to move on its sphere 
more smiling and lustrous than before. 4 



CHAPTER XIII. 

To assert that Cleofe, though now free from infatuation, did 
not feel most acutely her separation from him who had been so 
long her idol, would be to deny the truth, and, perhaps, to 
wrong my sister. 

Love, as I have already said, is the most exquisite and 
beautiful illusion of life. An exalted mind creates for itself an 
object little less than divine, and out of its own imagination 
invests it with every perfection. 

" Love refines 
The thoughts and the heart enlarges : hath his seat 
In reason, and is judicious ; is the scale 
By which to heav'nly love thou mayst ascend.' ' — 

But, how seldom does reality accord with the anticipation of our 
dreams ! 

In its first creation, how beautiful a vision is that of love, 
sporting in the ethereal regions of imagination, until reduced 
to the level of a sad reality in this vale of tears !— Woe to the 
lovers, when they awake ! Too soon compelled to sink from 
an eminence, to which the heated and rarified atmosphere of 
love had enabled them buoyantly to ascend, those who are even 
the most favored find that they are but yoked to human 
frailty, whilst the great majority awake to misery and to bitter 
repentance ! 

And to misery did poor Cleofe indeed awake from her long, 
happy illusion. 



104 MY CONFESSIONS. 

To have remained indifferent and unmoved at her sudden 
change from the bright cheerfulness of hope to a state of 
gloomy despondency — to have contemplated, without a heart- 
rending effort, the transformation of her lover from an angel 
to a demon, would have ill-accorded with the acute and high- 
toned sensibility of my beloved sister. 

This disappointment fell most heavily upon poor Cleofe, 
and the first consciousness of her misery had well nigh broken 
her heart. 

Happily for her, her mind was attuned to the love of all that 
is most admirable in this world — virtue and religion. The first 
taught my sister to detest vice, even though she beheld it in the 
object of her idolatry; and to shelter herself behind the aegis 
of that self-respect, which defies all the assaults and revilings 
of the wicked. — The second led her to resign herself to the 
will of her Creator, — a will ever blessed with mercy and good- 
will to man. 

Thus, to benefit her brother, whom she loved with the love 
that angels bear to each other, did Cleofe triumph over a deeply- 
rooted, though unworthy attachment; and rarely, indeed, will it 
be found, that, with such noble efforts, and with such exalted 
resolution, the triumph of victory is not secured — the applause 
of our own conscience, aud that peace of mind which no 
earthly possession can alone supply. 



CHAPTER XIV. 



One morning, going, as usual, to give a lesson to my fair 
Zuricker, I found, what had seldom before occurred at my 
visits, her husband seated beside her. She greeted me with a 
mute inclination of the head. A beautiful smile played upon 
her lips, and a peculiar expression in her eyes told me that her 



MY CONFESSIONS. 105 

heart was glad with some good news which she longed, vet 
hesitated, to communicate to me. 

Her husband received me without the least token of acknow-** 
ledgment, whatever might have been the favourable opinion 
with which he regarded me ; but it was impossible to interpret, 
from the expression of his countenance, whether gladness or 
sorrow were his prevailing sentiments, as he stood, immoveable 
as a statue, with his eyes fixed searchingly upon me. 

Had it not been for the slight glance I had obtained of my 
fair friend's countenance upon my entrance, I should have sus- 
pected, from his almost stern aspect, that he was inclined to be 
sceptical upon the motive of my visits to his wife, and that he 
doubted whether my feelings toward her were as truly platonic 
as I had persuaded myself they were. 

I, however, advanced and offered my hand to each : but, 
scarcely had I taken my usual seat, and prepared to commence 
my lesson, than, drawing from his pocket a bill of exchange, 
from the banker, Donato Orsi — by which I was again put into 
possession of two-thirds of the sum I had remitted to Cleofe — 
he addressed me thus : 

" One-third of your gift has been sufficient for the release 
of your father, Signor Guido Sorelli ; and these hundred louis 
are once more your own. If you will permit me, I will take 
charge of them for you, and place them together with the 
hundred and fifty belonging to you in my possession." 

" What hundred and fifty ?" I exclaimed, hastily. 

" Those," he replied, calmly, " you had previously con- 
signed to my keeping. I warned you, that to deprive yourself 
of all you possessed, was an act of extreme imprudence. But 
youth is little calculating, and yon had evidently decided upon 
not heeding my advice. Still, as your protector and your 
friend, 1 could not submit to seeing you run thus headlong into 
jeopardy ; and, as my arguments were powerless when op- 
posed to an act of filial duty, I eagerly obeyed an impulse of 
Heaven's inspiration, which was to supply from my own coffers 
the sum you demanded, and to the same amount of your de- 

F 3 



106 MY CONFESSIONS. 

posit in my hands, Two- thirds of that sum have been returned 
to me. This now belongs to you as part of a gift, which I 
trust you will not feel humiliated in accepting at my hands ; 
for, believe me, the consolation of having served one we esteem, 
is a recompense which even more than counterbalances the 
benefit conferred. But, Signor Guido, permit me to say to 
you, that, although this first step of a generous indiscretion has 
not been visited upon you with any very ill effects, there is 
nothing so perilous in life, as abandoning ourselves to each 
impulse of the heart, unconfirmed by parent-reason, and 
prudence. An unreserved obedience to such suggestions 
is sure to involve us in error* But do not misunderstand 
me, in supposing I would regulate your actions by the cold 
calculations of reason alone, which, unillumined by the softer 
impulses of the heart, possess in themselves an austerity or 
unkindness, degrading to our nature, and the perfection of 
its sentiments. Signor Guido, my sincerity must be an excuse 
for the severity of my counsel ; I now wish you good 
morning ! 

He shook my hand, and with the same serious, nay, almost 
severe expression on his countenance, he quitted the apart- 
ment, before I had time to utter one word of grateful acknow- 
ledgment. 



CHAPTER XV. 



My visits to Madame V...« were, with the exception of 
Sundays, paid uniformly every day from eleven o'clock until 
one, and, very frequently were repeated from three in the 
afternoon until five. 

Alone, or in the society of others, the pleasure I experienced 
in her conversation was always the same, for, in either posi- 
tion, it never deviated from the character of unreserved confi- 



MY CONFESSIONS. 107 

dence in which we had, from the beginning of our friendship, 
placed the purity of our principles — the elevation and glory of 
our sentiments. 

Whence did it arise that, notwithstanding the power I had of 
seeing her twice daily, every day her presence became insen- 
sibly more necessary to me ? How came it that the hours 
which intervened between my visits, now seemed to drag on 
so much more heavily than usual, and, at length, became so 
insupportable, that, as a solace for the temporary absence of 
the original, I ventured to ask for her portrait ; a request 
to which, had she acceded, must have been alike concealed 
from her husband and every living soul ! — There are pages in 
the history of the human heart, which man may, for a while, 
refuse to look into ; but though he shrinks from the contem- 
plation, not the less surely is there inscribed the terrible 
truth. 

Had then my love forsaken the pure and elevated temple of 
Platonic affection ? — Yet, how could it be so ? Far from 
veiling from myself the secret feelings of my heart, I seemed to 
concentrate all my powers in the desire of penetrating the 
motive of every thought and action, whilst I made it a point 
of duty to display before my fair friend the result of each, in 
order to obtain her sanction, if I were right, or submit to her 
correction, if I deviated from her standard of virtue in thought 
or word. 

Nevertheless, although she did not visit my singular request 
with the resentment it merited, and conscience with her iron 
sceptre had not yet chased from my bosom its indwelling 
peace, a secret misgiving had come over me, presaging that 
happiness was about to wing its flight from Guido for ever. — 
Perhaps this was one of those problems, the solution of which 
was alone to be obtained in the lapse of years ; — and in the 
lapse of years, indeed, have I found my solution. 



108 MY CONFESSIONS, 



CHAPTER XVI. 



Foscolo, the Greek, who in " Le mie Prigioni" is styled 
the friend of Silvio Pellico, had, at this period, just escaped 
from the fury of the Milanese populace, who eagerly sought to 
sacrifice hirn on the very spot where he assumed the character 
of an orator of a liherty, which they were either incapable of 
understanding, or, more probably, doubted his sincerity in 
advocating. He sought refuge in Zurich, bringing with him 
letters of introduction to the mercantile house of my friend. 

" Are you acquainted with Foscolo, the Greek ?" said my 
friend, one morning. 

" Only by reputation," I replied : " but I am most anxious 
to know him personally." 

" I can procure you that pleasure this very evening," said 
my friend ; " come to me at six o'clock, and we will pay him a 
visit together." 

I was enchanted at the prospect of becoming known to a 
man, who had maintained so pre-eminent a station among the 
literati of Italy — to him who was at once the friend and the 
rival of Monti— the idol of the most beautiful women of Italy , 
whose tears he had so often caused to flow by the simple power 
of his celebrated letters of " Jacopo Ortis." 

It was striking six, as I knocked at the door of my friend. 
After hastily despatching a cup of tea, we very shortly 
arrived at an elegant little villa, situated on the brow of a 
gently slooping hill, and which had for its title " La De- 
liziosa." 

Foscolo was at home, having been previously prepared by 
my friend, that he would be accompanied that evening by a 
young Florentine, in whom he was very much interested. 

We were ushered into his presence, when, scarcely heeding 
the salutation of my friend, and his introduction of me, Foscolo 
hastily advanced, and with his whole soul outwardly beaming 



MY CONFESSIONS. 109 

in every look, and in every gesture, took my hand cordially in 
one of his own, placed the other on my head as if in the act of 
benediction, and then softly drawing his fingers through my ** 
thick black hair, he exclaimed : 

" Behold an Italian head ! Thou art heartily welcome, my 
Florentine friend V 

I respectfully kissed the hand which still retained mine. I 
seemed unable to speak ; indeed, I do not think that Foscolo 
heard the sound of my voice that day. I stood before him, as 
if contemplating a vision which had just alighted on earth, but 
had not yet thrown off its ethereal attributes. 

It was a brief visit — but he begged of me to repeat it the 
following morning at eleven. I intimated my acquiescence, but 
in what manner, whether by word or gesture, I cannot now 
recall, and we took our leave. 



CHAPTER XVII. 



I was punctual to my appointment with Foscolo on the 
following morning. He received me with much courtesy 
— but, immediately after, with great abruptness, begged me 
to describe to him the present posture of my affairs, together 
with my future prospects of advancement, 

On hearing these words, I could not but think the request 
inquisitive and exacting, from one to whom I had only been 
introduced yesterday. It reminded me of the coarse freedom 
of the Bernese salutation, "How do you live ?" so unlike 
that of the German address, " How are you ?" 

Not wishing to satisfy so blunt an inquiry , I replied, some- 
what drily, that, " although I was certainly an exile from my 
native land, yet, thanks to heaven, fortune did not compel 
me to solicit aid from every stranger who arrived in the 



110 MY CONFESSIONS. 

town, and that I felt endued both with youth and energy 
sufficient to open for myself an honourable career, with no 
other assistance than my own efforts." 

Judging of the effect of my words by the lowering of 
Foscolo's red brow, I saw that he did not relish my answer. 
Perhaps it was more caustic than the occasion required. It 
might have been, that, what 1 then interpreted as an un- 
becoming freedom, was but the expression of a paternal 
feeling-— an. affectionate anxiety for my welfare — a tender com- 
passion, which a man thoroughly acquainted with the world 
might be supposed to entertain in beholding a young man 
of ardent temperament entering the fields of literature, aban- 
doned so early to his own immature judgment, and exposed 
to the caprice of fortune and to the treachery of man, with 
no other guides to direct him, save a poetical fancy and 
a dangerous imagination. 

If these were really the motives which dictated his enquiry, 
and which I now believe them to have been, I acted very 
improperly ; and my disrespectful, nay, impertinent reply, 
must have stung forcibly the sensitive mind of Foscolo, the 
most irascible of men. My conduct was puerile and vain : 
and I was impelled to it by the silly gratification of venting 
the spleen that had been aroused by a question, the innocent 
familiarity of which, I did not appreciate. 

How sadly deficient did I prove myself in the respect 
I owed to one who was my senior by many years, and so 
greatly my superior in talent. It was a virtual admission 
of my own incapacity to govern myself, of my irascibility 
on a slight offence, and of my subjection to a false pride. 
I was like the wasp who dared to bury its sting in the 
lion's skin ; and it was not long ere I was taught to pay 
most dearly for the infliction of my venom. 



MY CONFESSIONS. Ill 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



In our subsequent intercourse, Foscolo carefully refrained 
from putting similar questions to me. 

He, nevertheless, observed me most closely. He became 
a spy upon all my actions, and seemed to endeavour to penetrate 
the very secrets of my soul. — Silvio ! did you ever know 
aught of Foscolo save his sublime genius ? From your mention 
of him, I should deduce that he was esteemed by you as 
a being of all perfection. It might be that an intimate 
association with the exalted spirits of Milan had purified 
the grosser nature of the Greek, and rendered his character, 
for the time, not less divine than his genius. But the less 
ethereal, less balmy atmosphere of Zurich dispelled the illu- 
sion, and he stood forth in his naked weakness a wretched 
contrast to his previously assumed garb of worth.— The first 
victim of the change was myself. 

With his penetration of mind, it required but little obser- 
vation to perceive that there existed between Madame 
V. and myself an intimacy, which exceeded the pre- 
scribed limits of friendship. This was sufficient : he had 
now discovered the vulnerable point in me through which 
he might succeed in poisoning my peace of mind. 

Gifted with that magic power, which equally attracts within 
the circle of its fascination the hearts of friends and rivals, 
Foscolo too often made a most ungenerous use of this ad- 
vantage. Concealed beneath the smile with which he 
habitually greeted me, I little knew how much the wound 
I had unintentionally inflicted upon him, still rankled in his 
bosom, but supposed that his regard for me was continually 
increasing. Very soon, that affability of manner, which is so 
peculiarly graceful in men of genius, so entirely won my 



112 MY CONFESSIONS. 

affections, that I had no longer any secret unparticipated 
by him. Every feeling of my soul was laid open to his 
view. Never did the confidence existing between a parent 
and his child, or that of brothers, exceed that which subsisted 
between Foscolo and myself. On the subject of my attach- 
ment for Madame V. (which he admitted to be truly 
platonic) he gave me the most enlightened, the most excellent 
counsel. 

How eloquently would he describe the purity of platonic 
affection, and then draw a parellel between it and a less 
heavenly sentiment ! With what celestial tints did he paint 
that love whose essence is eternal and never fading paradise ! 
and then, by a way of contrast, present to my awakened 
perception the stem of that rose, which, begotten in the garden 
of matrimony, even when blooming amid the atmosphere 
of attainable human happiness and virtue, was still encom- 
passed with thorns and briars ! He would conclude by vividly 
describing the horrors of that headstrong uncontrolled passion, 
whose path leads inevitably to the chambers of death ! 

The more I listened, the stronger did my affection for him in- 
crease. Each word he uttered fell upon my ear like the sweetest 
balsam quelling the turbulent feelings of my youthful heart, 
and while prescribing to me the advantage of a wholesome 
discipline, he taught me to love — to pursue the paths of 
virtue. Alas ! that beneath the rose's soft and fragrant 
umbrage there should lurk a viper, which was imperceptibly" 
stealing onward to pierce me with its fatal sting ! Alas ! 
— How degenerate is man — and the world he inhabits ! 



CHAPTER XIX. 

A tedious interval of six months intervened between the 
projection and maturity of Foscolo's plan, which was intended 



MY CONFESSIONS. 113 

to effect my destruction. He regularly presented himself every 
Wednesday afternoon, at five o'clock, at my friend's house, 
that being the customary hour at Zurick for taking tea. 
The family party, on that day, is augmented by a select 
circle of friends, who meet for the purpose of conversation, 
which is maintained until about nine o'clock, when the com- 
pany separate. At these weekly assemblies, those only are 
admitted who are on the most intimate footing with the 
family. Foreigners are especially excluded, unless possessing 
high birth or extraordinary talent, and then only when they 
are temporary visitors, and not become residents at Zurich. 
My friend's doors were generally closed to me at five o'clock ; 
but on Wednesday, of course, my admittance at that hour 
was utterly proscribed The recurring approach of this day 
now began imperceptibly to fill me with sorrow ; and when its 
dawn broke, I felt a weight upon my heart. 

The two hours of that morning, which, like every other day 
of the week, I spent with my sweet friend, far from soothing my 
irritated feelings added only to their bitterness. How often 
has it happened, that day, after the first words of salutation 
on my entrance had been exchanged, that I have seated 
myself, as usual, by the side of the open window opposite 
to her, and, with my e3/es fixed upon the magnificent vale 
of Zurich, have remained for the whole time speechless, 
until the unexpected and unwelcome warning of the clock 
reminded me that my permitted stay was over, and caused 
me then to lament my moody silence. Rising from my 
seat, I pressed her hand without speaking, unless it were 
to utter a scarcely audible, "Farewell, until to-morrow !" 
frequently indeed, with a tear starting to my eye ! — What 
was the source of that tear ? sorrow, jealousy, or love ? 
Alas, it was all three 1 



114 MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER XX. 

The delicacy of my fair friend's conduct on these occasions, 
was incomparable, and worthy of herself. Too well did she 
comprehend what was passing in my breast without needing 
my confession ; and never did she endeavour to disturb a 
silence which any other woman would have resented as un- 
courteous. 

Her usual occupation was embroidery ; and this she quietly 
pursued during my stay. While I remained in my fit of 
silence, I never once lifted my eyes to her face ; she was 
however, always ready to beam upon me one of her most 
heavenly smiles, and to reply to me in the accents of kindness, 
whenever I chose to proffer the most insignificant remark. 
So lovely did her ingenuousness appear, so mild, so placid 
was the expression of her countenance, that I often thought 
my silence had not been displeasing to her ; yet when I found 
that she herself was not inclined to break it, my spirit would 
become bitter and discontented. Eminently virtuous and 
noble herself, she could readily sympathise with my heart's 
disquiet at feeling myself so much her inferior in those qualities. 
She, whose glance was sufficient to divine the innermost secrets 
of my soul, found it no very difficult task to read that which 
actuated my obstinate silence, and, possessed of that know- 
ledge, she attempted all the consolation that sympathy, en- 
treaties, and, on one occasion, tears could effect. But she 
soon became convinced that these produced no other result 
than to sear the wound already rankling within me. She 
therefore adopted the noble course of supporting me by her 
unalterable forbearance, and returning a thousand acts of 
kindness for each proof of my waywardness. 

When Thursday arrived, I felt more at peace with myself, 
and exhibited a demeanour rather more complacent, which 



MY CONFESSIONS. 115 

she always acknowledged by a kind, courteous and dignified 
return without once adverting, in the way of reproof, to my 
conduct of the preceding day. 

Friday, I had fully recovered myself and was careful of 
observing the demeanour a gentleman should never forget, 
under any circumstances, in the presence of a lady. 

Saturday, a period so far removed from the odious Wed- 
nesday, was to me an epoch of perfect happiness, when I 
could sometimes forget there had ever been or would return 
so hated a day in the calendar. 

Sunday rose upon me with a kind of indefinite enjoyment 
in which I felt, as it were, suspended midway between the 
regions of good and ill. 

Monday beheld me again encompassed by an atmosphere 
of clouds. 

Tuesday brought to me that anticipation of misery 

" Which is a greater ill 

Than oft appears in sad endurance;" 

and the succeeding day was — Wednesday. 



CHAPTER XXI. 



The varying. dispositions of my mind, when in the society 
of my friend, may be easily imagined — changing almost with 
the hour. Each day my manner, my conduct, and my words 
were stamped with the assumption of a different character. 
But while I displayed my gradations, from suavity to abrupt- 
ness, from that to a harsh bearing, and finally to absolute 
rudeness, my sweet friend ever observed one undeviating line 
of conduct, uniting, at once, the dignity and humility of 
friendship, with sympathy and pardon. Often when I have 



1 16 MY CONFESSIONS. 

presumed to doubt the purity of her regard for me, she has 
concealed the sting that my unworthy suspicions had inflicted 
upon her ; and recurring only to the nobler qualities of her 
friend's heart, she has wept over the contemplation of that 
agony, with which she rightly judged I must be torn, un- 
shielded by the protection of experience, or a true knowledge 
of myself and the world, and not even possessed of the power 
of curbing the untameable and violent feelings of my too ar- 
dent temperament. Yes, then has she shed for my sorrows the 
tears which are ordinarily awakened but for our own, or which 
might have arisen in her from a more selfish source aroused 
by my too cruel suspicions of herself. Such was my Zuricker. 
I shall never behold such another being ! 

It was in one of these moments of high excitement that 
I besought Madame V, to let me have her portrait. This 
noble creature, who looked more to the purity of motives 
than to the mere appearance of the actions they inspired, 
did not hesitate to brave the prejudices of the world — preju- 
dices, which it is, however, the policy, if not the duty of 
woman to obey— and deemed it prudent to acquiesce in my 
demand. She dreaded that a refusal might cause such an 
alienation as would lessen her influence over me ; while, by a 
compliance, I might be rendered more docile and submissive 
to her authority. She was not deceived. 

Zurich, at this period, could boast of citizens of such strict 
integrity, that their simple affirmation was accounted as worthy 
of belief as the most solemn adjuration. It was to the house 
of one of these men, an artist of great celebrity, that Madame 
V. repaired. She explained to him the object of her visit, 
representing at the same time the extreme peril she should in- 
cur if any living creature were to become acquainted with her 
errand. The artist promised inviolable secrecy, which he 
religiously observed, and in a very little time his skill 
enabled him to transfer to his ivory her very image. 

" Guido," she said to me one day, presenting at the 
same time a packet ; " your request is granted. From the 



MY CONFESSIONS. H7 

\~alue of the gift you will appreciate the esteem and friendship 
I feel for you ; you must be sensible that, in the hands of 
thousands, this pledge of my sentiments would become the 
instrument of my utter ruin. I give it you as to a beloved 
brother ; and believe me, dear Guido, this moment is one 
of the happiest of my life — perhaps it may prove the last 
happy moment I may enjoy in life. Guard it in secret, and 
may its possession be useful to you ; and when I shall have 
passed away from existence, should my departure ever weigh 
heavily upon your thoughts, think on the counsel my image 
points out to you, and accept it as the behest of a being 
freed from her load of mortality and weakness, who will 
then be above you, and may love and watch over you.'' 

" But may I enquire what this packet contains besides the 
promised portrait ?" 

*' I have added another gift, which 1 beg you will accept 
and cherish for my sake/' she replied ; " do not open it until 
you are alone within your own chamber < — this you must 
promise me." 

" I do promise, " I replied. 

On quitting her presence her heart seemed to revel in a 
sea of joy at witnessing my satisfaction. I was indeed happy 
in the consciousness of being freed from the darkening 
shade, which hatred, suspicion and jealousy had cast over 
my mind. 

Whilst hastening to my apartments, my mind was eagerly 
revolving within itself what it could be that rendered the 
packet so very bulky. Every thing but the truth presented 
itself to my imagination ; and I was much surprised on break- 
ing the seal to find the portrait accompanied by a Bible. 
It was in French : the book, she too well knew, I had never 
read in any language. I hastily turned over the frontispiece 
and opened a leaf wherein she had placed three beautiful 
flowers, and had marked a passage which I shall presently 
transcribe. I was almost startled on beholding her costume 
in the portrait to be entirely that of mourning, — A long black 



118 MY CONFESSIONS. 

veil thrown over her fair hair, descended in ample folds to 
her waist. She was seated in a kind of pavilion hung with 
black ; at her side stood a table covered with a black cloth, 
on which lay a book bound in the same sombre hue. Her 
eyes seemed to rest on me with an expression of sorrow and 
affection, of warning and compassion, which the pencil may 
impart but the pen cannot express ; while her forefinger pointed 
to the following passage in the open book : 

t€ Come unto me all ye that are heavily laden; and I will 
refresh you, saith the Lord," 

Sweet is the recollection of those hours of peace and perfect 
happiness, which I was then permitted to enjoy ! They soon, 
indeed, passed away, but their grateful and soothing influence 
still continues to refresh my heart. — Oh beautiful rainbow 
of my existence ! Thy brilliant hues reflect the glory of that 
heaven whose gift thou art.. Thou hast filled my soul with 
an overflowing love and gratitude towards my Creator — with 
benevolence and charity towards my fellow men. Though the 
sun of thy splendour has long set, and no cheering Aurora has 
since appeared to announce thy return ; thoiigh no more 
than the reflection of thy fading rays remains to illumine the 
clouds of darkness and tempests which, at thy disappearance, 
encompassed me, and still encompass me around; and, although, 
having now arrived at a high point of life's acclivity, panting 
exhausted with continual strife with an endless contest 
against worldly obstacles and my own weakness, my lyre 
has lost its harmony, and my voice become untuneful, yet 
thy benign influence inspires me ever to offer up my languid 
though heartfelt hymn of gratitude to the Most High — whose 
emanation thou art, and to whose bosom thou hast returned. 
Oh God of mercy, shall such happiness ever again be mine ? 
Thou, in Thy infinite wisdom, alone knowest ! 



MY CONFESSION.?. 1 I Q 



CHAPTER XXII. 



After a month of undisturbed serenity, I found, in returning 
home one morning from giving a lesson, the following letter 
addressed to me lying on the table. 

"Sir, 

" The doors of Madame V. have been closed against 
me, and I am forbidden ever to appear again in her presence. 
Like the oak which takes root in a rocky and tenacious 
soil, such am I, and not even the thunder of heaven shall 
precipitate me from my proud eminence ere I involve in 
my downfall, the tender shrub which has flourished in mv 
vicinity. Before I explain myself further, you will understand 
me. Never to behold her again ! but to share the curse 
that has fallen upon Foscolo / — such will be the ready whisper 
of your heart — and i" confirm the irrevocable sentence. 
Approach her door again, and your ruin, together with her's — 
thai of thy gentle friend — shall be but the work of a moment. 
You are both in my power, as you well know. Therefore 
mark my words well. What I have threatened I will perform. 
In your dilemma you must choose between two paths which are 
before you. The one is to submit to the same destiny that has 
overtaken me ; the other, honour will readily suggest to 
you, if you are a man of courage. I shall await your signal, 

(i Ugo Foscolo." 



IfO MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER XXII. 



How withering is the effect of malice ! — If the malevolence 
of man cannot equal the thunders of Heaven in causing 
our instant and utter annihilation, it, nevertheless 9 but too 
often succeeds in destroying that, which is one of the brightest 
jewels of life — our peace of mind — a treasure that borrows 
much of its radiance from the genial sunshine of human 
kindness. 

As soon as I had finished reading the above letter, my 
heart seemed to shrink within me. It seemed as if I had 
been awakened from a celestial dream by the rude chilling 
atmosphere of an earthly existence. I felt as if I had been 
wandering, like our first parents, in a paradise all purity and 
joy, and was thence suddenly, without a warning, expelled 
by some gigantic power, to be driven into an abyss to rise from 
which, all my subsequent efforts have been unavailing — - 
a useless strife, which has but renewed my anguish. 

My peace of mind, the prospect of independence almost 
within my reach, for which I had so assiduously and so success- 
fully toiled — and, what was of far more importance, the happi- 
ness and reputation of my virtuous friend, which I would 
have purchased with my heart's blood — all these were crushed 
in a moment by the superior power of a slanderer, whom I 
had unhappily armed for my own destruction. 

Two nights before my reception of this hated letter I had 
fallen into a deep sleep, when I was awakened about two 
o'clock in the morning by a repeated knocking at the door 
of my apartments. I rose hastily, and to my eager question 
of " Who is there ?" was answered by a voice which seemed 
to issue from the concealment of a mask, " It is I — Foscolo — 
open the door quickly." 



MY CONFESSIONS. \%\ 

Exceedingly surprized, but wholly unsuspicious of treachery, 
I leaped from my bed, struck a light, and enveloping myself ► 
in a large cloak, opened the door, exclaiming, " What can 
have led you hither at this hour ?" 

" Await my return at the foot of the staircase," said Foscolo 
to the servant, who had accompanied him with a lantern ; 
and then, turning to me, he continued in a low tone, " pardon 
me, dear Guido, for disturbing you at this unseasonable hour, but 
the most imperative necessity compels me to require that you 
should listen to me for ten minutes ; I will not detain you longer." 

Saying this, he closed the door, and seating himself near 
me, bent his eyes for some moments upon the ground. When 
he again raised them, I saw they were filled with tears. 

" Guido," he began, " you behold in me the most mi- 
serable of men ! You see before you a fearful example of 
weakness where you have been used to look for unconquerable 
strength. I am in truth an humbled — a degraded man ! — 
Guido, I have ever been the favourite of that lovely sex, on 
whose faith, however, [ have but little relied. Undazzled 
by that fascination so lovely in woman, I have never sought 
their intimacy, so, that from afar, I might be the better able 
to worship without idolatry the virtues they really possess, 
and not become bewildered by that ideal perfection, the cou- 
leur de rose of the imagination, which is too generally the 
offspring of an excited fancy rather than the stamp of nature's 
hand. V/ill you then credit me, Guido, that a fair creature 
usurps at this moment so powerful an ascendancy over my 
mind, that, for weeks past, happiness and sleep have been 
alike strangers to my pillow ? Unendowed with the brilliant 
talents- with which I have invested the Theresa of my Jacopo 
Ortis ; possessing neither the fire, the grace, the ingenuous- 
ness, the energy, nor the freedom of an Italian ; there is 
yet within the atmosphere she breathes an inexplicable fasci- 
nation — a magic all her own— an irresistible enchantment. 
But my resolution is taken, and I have seen her for the 
*ast time. To confront a passion, whose indulgence is dis- 

G 



122 MY CONFESSIONS. 

graceful, would be the height of moral cowardice. To fly, 
is to conquer ; and the more hasty the flight, the more as- 
sured and glorious the victory. In a few hours, I shall quit 
Zurich for Basle, whence I shall proceed to England, to try 
there my fortune in the paths cf literature. But, as I know 
myself too well, to be convinced that, were my departure ac- 
companied by a doubt of her virtue, for whose repose I have 
thus sacrificed my prospects, I should never again taste hap- 
piness, or pardon myself for having ever in my life che- 
rished an affection for a woman, who was unworthy of 
it ; and, as uncertainty is still more intolerable than the saddest 
reality, I will employ in my necessity a painful though salutary 
remedy, and deprive my wound of its poison by enduring present 
agony that I may procure a future recovery. Guido, I there- 
fore now demand a signal proof of your friendship for 
me : I expect it from your exalted mind. I adjure you, 
by the hours of apparent happiness you have passed with 
me — by the tranquillity I have restored to you — the warnings, 
the counsels which, for your sake alone, I have bestowed 
on you — by my happiness — by your own — lastly, by the 
happiness of her you love — take from me the uncertainty 
into which the confidence of your own bosom has plunged me. 
Is the love she bears you pure and innocent ? Dare she 
without trembling bare her heart, and unblushingly expose 
its nature to a husband who adores her ?" 

" Yes, pure as an angel's love is that she entertains for 
me!" I exclaimed with great emotion. " But stay, Foscolo ; 
do not depend solely on my asseveration which may appear 
partial. Select any one of these letters you please : you will 
thus be able to judge of the purity of the soul enshrined within 
that lovely frame." As I spoke, I opened a small casket, 
and drew from it a bundle of letters. He selected one from 
the number, and eagerly ran his eye over it in silence. " I 
am satisfied, and I thank you for it," he said after a brief 
pause. " But it is now time for me to leave you, and for you 
to return to repose" His lips here assumed the bitterest 



MY CONFESSIONS. 123 

smile, as he added half jestingly, " I marvel I can recollect 
that word after its reality has so long abandoned me ! Good 
night, Guido V and, extending towards me one hand, he 
touched the lock of the door with the other, and disappeared 
in an instant. 

An undefinable feeling of sadness took possession of me, as 
soon as I felt myself alone. I laid myself down on my pillow — 
but sleep had forsaken me. At length, day began to dawn, 
and I rose. It was Sunday, and I was consequently unable to 
communicate my uneasiness to Madame V . . . . from whom a 
single word would have sufficed to raise my depressed spirits 
and tranquillize my mind. 

For one long day, therefore, I was abandoned to the soli- 
tary companionship of my thoughts, and these were gloomy 
enough, in spite of all my endeavours to repress their saddening 
influence, and I was equally unable to penetrate the cause of 
them. 

There exists in the heart of man a mysterious hiding-place, 
unfathomable by human investigation, whence issues, at the 
approach of evil, that still — unearthly warning of Providence, 
which, alas ! is generally unheeded : and it is only when 
danger has overwhelmed us that we become conscious of 
our error in turning a deaf ear to its guidance. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 



Every word of Foscolo's letter recalled vividly to my me- 
mory the scene of Saturday night, and I became fully conscious 
of his unheard-of, unexampled malice ! In our youthful 
days, when a disposition to trust is as natural as our inclina- 
tion to love, how wretched is the first check we experience — 
the first lesson we are taught — by becoming the victim of 

G 2 



3 24 MY CONFESSIONS. 

treachery and deceit ! How changed becomes the scene of our 
fancied Hesperian happiness, doomed for ever to wander in a 
dreary labyrinth, where, unguided by Ariadne's silken clue, 
we fear at each step to encounter, alone and unprotected, the 
giant Centaur. 

The detection of a crime as unexpected by us as it is revolt- 
ing, is rendered yet more painful by the consciousness that our 
betrayer is human, and that being human ourselves we may 
chance to fall into the same temptations, and become at length 
equally degraded. We feel already guilty though yet unstained 
by the crime, knowing that we are but the fruit of a blighted 
tree, whose growth is in a blasted soil. 

Unable to decide upon what plan I should pursue — almost 
paralised at thus beholding myself threatened with danger 
on either side, I resolved to meet that, which seemed the 
least appalling — and, braving Foscolo's menaces, that same 
morning I once more sought my gentle friend. I found 
her with a countenance even paler than usual, but strongly 
marked with agitation and excitement. She exclaimed as I 
entered : 

" Have you seen Foscolo ?" 

" I have." I replied. I then detailed to her the scene of 
Saturday night, and : " Here," said I, "is a letter from 
his hand." 

A smile of proud indignation, though not unmingled with 
uneasiness, passed across her features as she hastily ran 
over the lines. 

" Yes, too truly I foresee that we are indeed lost, dear 
Guido," she ejaculated ; " he swore to me he would be 
revenged — and too well, alas ! has he kept his word. Vile 
creature ! He would destroy one who has never injured him, 
because I have dared to repulse his proffered love, as became 
the wife of the most generous of men, and as might have 
been expected from one worthy of the friendship of Guido. 
But it is fit you should know all. Yesterday, he sought 
out mv husband's father, and detailed to him the historv 



MY CONFESSIONS. 125 

of my acquaintance with you ; the tenor of our corres- 
pondence, and the circumstance of the portrait, with >: 
which your incautious confidence had made him acquainted ; 
and with the eloquence of which you know him so ca- 
pable, he persuaded the good old man that my friendship 
for you was likely to endanger the character and honour of 
his family. My father-in-law, in the highest indignation re- 
paired to my husband, and, accompanying him to my apart- 
ment, expressed before him the severest censure upon my 
conduct. I defended myself, and exculpated you with the 
energy dictated by a consciousness of innocence ; and I con- 
cluded by revealing to them the odious proposals made to 
me by Foscolo on the previous Saturday morning. This ap- 
peared to satisfy — I may say it did satisfy my husband, who, 
himself the soul of honour, with difficulty suspects others 
of treachery. Not so his father. He insisted upon your 
quitting Zurich ; seeing him firm in this opinion, I then boldly 
replied, that / for one would never consent to your banish- 
ment ; and quitting them abruptly, I shut myself up in my own 
apartment. My husband, ever delicate and affectionate in 
his conduct towards me, left me for some time to my own 
reflections, until I requested that he would come to me. 
Without an instant's delay he was at my side. He told me 
that his father was still extremely irritated against me for 
having carried on a correspondence with a young foreigner, 
however pure might be its nature ; that he still insisted 
on your quitting Zurich ; and that if you did not acquiesce 
voluntarily in taking that step, he would compel you by 
an appeal to the burgomaster. Indeed, not all that my 
husband could say in extenuation of our imprudence — such 
was his own expression — had the least effect in calming 
his father's irritation." 

Madame V. then proceeded to dilate upon the tender 
interest her husband had displayed for her during this, her 
most severe trial, and to assure me of the tears they had 
shed together for the cruel destiny of one equally dear to 



126 MY CONFESSIONS. 

both, whose prospects and welfare were assailed by an in- 
famous calumny which threatened to undermine his cha- 
racter as a man of honour. She also assured me that her 
husband, convinced of my innocence, had promised never 
to forsake me. and to co-operate with her to the extent 
of his power in exculpating me from a foul accusation, 
and in requiring justice to be done to my character. 
She concluded with these words never to be forgotten by 
me : 

" Guido, I feel that a cloud is hanging over us, which 
I much fear it is God's will not to disperse. An irresistible 
presentiment tells me that on my devoted head it will burst ; 
but, again, a serene hope animates me with the assurance of 
your safe return to Italy, to the bosom of your family and 
to the affection of your sister. An attachment founded on 
virtue, far from becoming weakened, grows with absence ; 
and the memory of your friend, whether in existence or in 
the grave, will not be less dear to you in another land. 
Submit to the dictates of prudence, dignity and courage. 
Prudence will suggest how indispensable it is that your visits 
to us should cease for some time. Dignity will teach you 
to feel your own worth, and not to expose your own repu- 
tation and life to the unlicensed wrath of an adventurer, who 
has himself nothing to lose in the contest. And courage will 
animate you, when oppressed by man, to raise your looks 
to heaven, and ask of God resignation to His will, which, 
although inexplicable to mortal comprehension, never has 
designed aught but for the good of His creatures." 

" I will endeavour to obey you," was the only reply 
I could utter. I then rose from my seat, and kissing her 
hand with emotion, hastily quitted the apartment. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 127 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

" How shall I address you ?" such was the commencement of 
my reply to Foscolo's letter, written immediately upon my return 
home from the interview with my friend. " I know not 
how to designate an individual, who, by the blackest and 
most dastardly act, has ever forfeited his claim to the title — 
to the dignity of a man. By me, then, you shall be nameless — 
but, to your conscience alone will I refer a task to which I 
am unequal, should that day ever break on you, when you 
will be enabled to shake off the death-like torpor in which you 
are at present plunged. Do not imagine that I am about 
to overwhelm you with my just indignation or reproaches. 
No, I would only speak of my self > and that but for a brief 
moment. 

" It is needless to repeat to you, who and from whence 
I am. You already possess the history of my past life and 
the secrets of my heart. But I would tell you, that which 
in your blindness you have not foreseen, nor yet, perhaps, 
even imagined. 

" Know then, that the prospect of that sweet indepen- 
dence, which in a world of bondage had presented itself so 
alluringly to a young man of twenty summers' experience, 
has in a moment, and for ever, vanished from him as a 
dream ; while from the impetuosity of his temperament — of 
which you too fatally know him possessed — never dare he 
hope to look with resignation on the indigence which awaits 
him. Know then, that the contrast of a mind exulting in its 
own individual freedom, and now compelled to the humiliating 
necessity of imploring succour to support a miserable existence, 
is about to become his fearful penalty, during the fulfilment 
of which he may scarcely know how to bless his Maker. Know 



12S MY CONFESSIONS. 

that the dutiful son and affectionate brother, unable longer to 
administer to the support of his aged father and family, must 
endure the consciousness that those he loves are languishing 
in misery, and, perhaps, expiring in wretchedness, himself 
powerless to save or comfort them ; while the wandering 
existence, to which alike hopeless fate condemns him, denies 
him the only though sad consolation of participating in their 
grief, wiping away their tears, or mingling with them his 
own. Know too, that though, in his entrance on this world's 
stage, he may have possessed in common with his fellow- 
creatures a mild and amiable character, yet, after so fearful 
a revulsion of feeling, life will become distasteful to him ; 
and, rendering him unjust, he may imbibe the hasardous 
sentiment of estimating all mankind through an equally 
despicable medium : deprived of his self-esteem, he may alike 
hate himself and his fellow- men. The relentless scythe has 
razed the young blossom at the very moment of its expansion, 
and it will wither, even though the arm of its destroyer were 
stretched forth to restore its languishing existence. Know 
then, that you have ruined me for ever, hopelessly, irre- 
mediably ! 

" Man may injure; he may kill the body of his fellow- 
mortal ; but his is not the gift of life ; and as he looks 
on the bleeding work of his hands, he feels within his heart 
the fearful recoil of a sated revenge — it has returned, 
in retribution upon himself, from the consciousness of his 
impotency to carry it beyond the grave. * He that rolleth 
a stone, it will return upon him/ 

te Alas! How have I injured you? When yet a stranger 
to you, I had admired your works, as we venerate that which, 
is beautiful on earth ; and, from the moment of our first acquaint- 
ance, have I only looked on you as one of those heavenly 
visions staying its flight in this valley of tears, to show to 
man how his nature may become ennobled, to teach him to 
what a degree of perfection he may yet elevate himself. 
Great God ! how have I mistaken you ! You are, indeed, 



MY CONFESSIONS. | . 9 

fallen in my eyes from your pinnacle of light into a fearful 
abvss of darkness ! and vour talents — your talents ? — alas ! 
what a fatal gift have they proved to you — made subservient 
to a base endeavour to sully the purity of a virtuous mind, 
and, frustrated in your attempt, to revenge in calumniating 
and sacrificing innocence ! Go — I envy you not their 
possession. True, they may open to us on earth a bright 
and flowery path ; but, alas ! how often have they proved 
the fatal inlet to Pandora's box, whose pestiferous contents 
have alike poisoned all within the influence of their baneful 
atmosphere. 

11 But not satisfied with having thus helplessly ruined me 
with the world, you would even seek my life's blood ; and, to 
tempt me to the gratification of your unnatural thirst, speak to 
me of the laivs of honor as your plea. 

" But here let me pause ; and ere I ask your meaning of the 
word, let me tell you my definition. 

" Honor forbids me to submit to the imperious prohibition* 
you would impose upon me, to abstain from visiting the 
friends of my own selection. Honor commands me to respect 
a family, who have lavished every kindness upon me— who have 
been to me a brother and a sister, during my sojourn in the 
land of the stranger. Honor teaches me, that, were I to accept 
your challenge, the publicity that must inevitably result from it, 
could not fail, in so small a town as this, to ruin, irremediably, 
the reputation, and destroy the happiness of my dearest friends. 
But Honor commands me to assure you that, on the faith of a 
gentleman, I accept your defiance for the first hour we place 
foot on any ground beyond Switzerland. Alas I why am I not 
now master of my own actions ? I would then prove to you, 
it is an easy thing to lay down one's life ; and that it requires 
even a smaller effort when it has become valueless by the con- 
sciousness of a sullied reputation— the knowledge that our 
best friends are calumniated, and a spirit withered within us, 
and no longer able to exert the power which had nearly ac- 
quired a happy independence. 

G 3 



130 MY CONFESSIONS* 

tc I will defy you to inflict upon me a heavier injury than that 
you have already done — and I now leave you to your own con- 
science. — In that alone shall be my revenge. You will one 
day understand what it is to be thus left to yourself, when 
conscience shall commence to you her appeal. Vainly will you 
endeavour to fly her society ; she still will pursue you ; and, 
like the worm that dieth not, never will she cease to gnaw your 
heart, until she has imbibed the last drop of your life's blood, 
and dried up every channel of happiness — if that, indeed, has 
still its dwelling place in your bosom. 

" GUIDO S0RELLI," 

P.S. — "I have purposely addressed you in French.... a 
language foreign to us both, for I would not trace the characters 
of my divine tongue on a paper destined for your hands. I thank 
God that it is at the hands of a Greek I am thus overwhelmed. 
Had it been an Italian who had thus injured me, it would have 
broken my heart/' 



CHAPTER XXV. 



My reply to Foscolo, brief as it may now appear in perusal, 
cost me an entire day's reflection to compose, and a quire of 
paper to transcribe. But that it was so, is easily acounted for. 
A mind, agitated as mine was at that period, would naturally 
become the sport of every successive impulse of the heart ; and, 
not until the first ebullitions of feeling had evaporated, could 
reason hope to claim her share of attention as a third party in 
the conflict. 

It wanted but an hour of sunset, when I had traced the last 
sheet of my quire, which bore rather characters of fire 



MY CONFESSIONS. 131 

than a succession of reasonable words, when I was startled by 
a light tap at the door of my apartment, and presently beheld 
the figure of my landlady enter, bearing in her hand a small 
basin of soup. She advanced towards me, and while the tears 
stood in her eyes, she implored me to break my fast, which I 
had not done the whole of that day. 

Convinced, from my manner of refusing both breakfast and 
dinner, that mine was mental suffering rather than a corporeal 
malady, by a conduct at once delicate and compassionate, she 
abstained from questioning me on the subject, but thinking 
only of administering to my comfort, she resolved to compel 
me to accept her courtesy by a gentle violence. 

This simple act of sympathy, from a human creature, affected 
me exceedingly, occupied as I had been the whole day, in 
dwelling on the coldness and perfidy of my fellow-beings. From 
a feeling of gratitude, therefore, rather than from any inclina- 
tion I had for the proffered nourishment, I accepted the soup- 
though I declined her pressing solicitation to take something 
more. I felt gratified in seeing the good creature leave me 
with a countenance much relieved of its sadness. 

As she quitted the apartment, I burst into tears, and throw- 
ing myself upon my knees, prayed long and fervently, though 
more in the language of sighs and sobs than of words. What 
a sea of troubles, my dear Silvio, seemed at that moment to 
encompass my soul ! By degrees (although how I could not 
comprehend) every feeling of anger, every thought of revenge, 
faded from my heart. I became almost cheerful, and, though 
still with the confused consciousness that I was actually desti- 
tute of all human succour, wouldst thou believe it, Silvio, I 
experienced a species of exultation at beholding myself thus 
prostrated from the pinnacle of visionary happiness which my 
own hands had erected. " Behold thee, Guido, without other 
hope than the mercy of thy God !" thus a voice seemed to 
whisper to my heart — " Mark, that for an end, inscrutable to 
thee, but that thy sorrows may turn to thy good, he has sent 
the whirlwind to tear up thy ground on the very eve of thy 



13 2 MY CONFESSIONS. 

harvest. He has withdrawn from thee a good which thou 
didst not deserve, in order that thou mayst know that it is a 
God who gives, but it is a Father who takes away that He hath 
given," At the recollection of a name so tender, coupled as it 
was with the sweet consciousness that it is indeed in such a 
relation our Maker stands towards us, if I still felt joyless, I 
became resigned and tranquil. 

I brushed away my tears, rose from my knees, and resuming 
a seat at my little table, re-perused the epistle which had 
occupied me during the day, and which now seemed to inspire 
me with a horror of myself for having written it. I therefore 
extracted from it the substance of the preceding letter, and 
tore the remainder into a thousand pieces. 

Having dispatched my letter to Foscolo, I again breathed a 
short prayer to Heaven, imploring God that peace might once 
more illumine the home of my two friends — that the relentless 
arrow of a cruel enemy might be pointless ; and that I might 
submit cheerfully to His Heavenly dispensations, I then threw 
myself on my bed, where kind nature soon closed to my percep- 
tion a day of the most intense and bitter misery, and which 
was destined to form an epoch in my existence, that materially 
influenced my future career. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 



My sleep that night was uninterrupted and tranquil. Never- 
theless, a certain consciousness of misery did not even then 
forsake me ; and, accordingly, when I awoke in the morning, I 
did not experience that wretched and forlorn state of feeling, 
which overpowers one's mind after a temporary oblivion of a 
great misfortune. 

I renewed my daily avocations, and on that and the succeed- 



MY CONFESSIONS. 133 

ing days, pursued them with calmness ; — but it was the calm 
of utter hopelessness, emanating from a mind conscious that it 
has nothing more to lose. Saturday evening came, and as I sat 
alone in the apartment, I was startled by the entrance of the 
husband of Madame V. I soon became aware that I had 
over-rated the apathy of my present feeling, in supposing my- 
self insensible to any future calamity, for, at his appearance, a 
cold shudder came over me. I felt as though I had but yet 
seen the lightning of the storm, whose flash was the warning 
of the tempest that was to overwhelm me. I fixed my eyes 
upon him, unable to wish him the '* Good evening" that courtesy 
demanded. He held out his hand to me, and soon relieved me 
from my agitation. 

" I come/' he said, " at the desire of my father, who is 
anxious to convey to you his extreme sorrow for having 
doubted your honour, and his still deeper grief for his angry 
reproaches, which you so little merited. This letter, addressed 
to you by Foscolo, will explain the rest." 

" Signore, 

" For, several weeks past, my mind has been agitated by 
doubts of that doctrine we are all taught to believe, ' Man's 
free agency.' His free-will has seemed to me a mere fable. 
Amongst the crowd of evil spirits, who, since this world has 
become accursed, have by their presence poisoned the atmos- 
phere of human existence, one so malignant has of late set its 
seal upon my heart, that, from the hour of my enthralment, I 
have lost all controul over myself. I have marked the precipice 
before me, but vainly have I struggled with the mysterious 
power that impelled me towards its fearful brink. The gulf has 
yawned beneath my feet, without my being able to withdraw one 
step from inevitable destruction. Irresistibly have I been com- 
pelled to take the fatal plunge ; and then, and not until then, 
after having endured the tortures of humiliation and debase- 
ment, upon whose rocks I had fallen, did the demon loosen me 



134 MY CONFESSIONS. 

from his grasp, and unveil my eyes to the extent of the danger, 
I feel that the wrong I have done to myself is light in comparison , 
with the remorse I suffer for what I have done to you and to 
our mutual friends. The man who has thus debased himself, 
can retain no other virtue than that of confessing his degrada- 
tion. Bat if the little wealth which I possess could compensate 
for the ruin of your prospects through my conduct, speak but 
the word, and it shall be your's. Happy were it for me, if, by 
accepting the offering, you could become the instrument of 
lightening my soul from its inevitable load of eternal re- 
morse. 

" But, too well do I know you, to hope for such a result, 
and too clearly have I deciphered your heart, not to be aware 
that time only, and religion — should that ever hereafter become 
with you a ruling principle — could induce you to grant a pardon 
which, perhaps, in your spring-time of existence, not even the 
counselling voice of an angel would succeed in obtaining for 
such an offender. If, therefore, in this or in any other land, 
you persist in your resolution to seek at my hands a just satis- 
faction, I am ready at your bidding. But I solemnly swear, 
that, if I am compelled to draw my sword, it shall be in de- 
fence of my own life, not in attempting to injure yours. — 
Adieu. 

" UGO FOSCOLO." 

P.S. — " I quit Zurich at eight o'clock to-morrow for 
Basle." 



" Artful villain, " I indignantly exclaimed at the con- 
clusion of the letter : " like the crocodile, you pretend to 
shed tears on your mangled victim ! After having plunged the 
point of your steel into my breast, what consolation can I derive 
from your now breaking your deadly weapon." 

" Compose yourself, Guido," interrupted my friend mildly; 
" do not prove unworthy of yourself, or of the esteem of 



MY CONFESSIONS. 135 

vour friends. Rembember there is but little merit in 
navigating a bark upon a tranquil ocean. Remember 
that the voice which, for a time, allows the turbulence 
of the angry billows, is that also which stills the storm 
and restores the waves to the hue of serenity — He, 
who bids the darkness arise, can equally disperse its shadows 
and command the light to dwell upon the earth, The man 
who has never suffered knows not how to suffer. Learn 
then this great lesson, and stand forth an example for your 
fellow-men. Learn too, how to pardon, and you will be 
dear to your God, Yes, Guido, we look for nothing less 
from you than your forgiveness, and its verbal or written 
assurance to him who has done you so great a wrong. It 
is good for you to accustom yourself to pardon injuries, 
Though a great effort, it is an impulse which springs from 
above ; its reward is peace on earth. But, if man obey 
not its dictates in youth, seldom will he listen to it in ma- 
turity. Foscolo is as wretched as that man must be who feels 
conscious of having betrayed hospitality and calumniated in- 
nocence. But we are all mortal and all equally liable to 
forget our Creator and the dignity of our nature. Who 
among us dare boast that, unsupported by God, he could 
walk forth harmless, from the ordeal of a like temptation, 
Tremble then, Guido, at his example, pity him, forgive him, 
and support with manly forbearance the consequences of an 
error which is now — and for ever irreparable. Every act 
of your resentment would but gratify the weaker feelings 
of your heart, without in the least enhancing Foscolo' s re- 
morse, while the consciousness of your generous pardon would 
perpetuate in him the memory of his wrong to you — a 
sad but necessary memento, though it may prove a shield 
to preserve him from the degradation that would follow a 
repetition of so culpable an act. Should my entreaties prove 
unavailing to you, Guido, I have only to add those of my 
wife, who, through me, supplicates you, by all the influence 
she possesses, to listen to me. Write but two lines to him, 



136 MY CONFESSIONS. 

and, and if you think me worthy the embassy, suffer me 
to be the mediator between you." 

I took up a pen, and wrote as follows : 

" Foscolo, 

**■ I thank God, I now no longer entertain the shadow 
of resentment towards you. I hope I may as easily forget 
the cause of it. To a mind sensitive as yours, it may 
perhaps be a less difficult task to pardon than to endure 
the consciousness of being the object of another's forgiveness ; 
but the more you may shrink from submitting to such a 
humiliation, the more complete is the reparation you tacitly 
offer to him you have injured. Forgive me then, that I 
have forgiven you, and forbear to wish me evil. I thank 
you for your proffered gift though I cannot accept it. "Were I 
to do so, I should depart from a principle I have always 
been guided by — never to receive presents even from those 
I love, unless merited by my own services. In this in- 
stance moreover, by acquiescing in your proposal, I should 
deprive you, an exile, of the means of present support, 
and betray a want of reliance on God's providence. Pray, 
do not then from this moment be concerned on my account, 
for I am happy in the conviction, that, if the Almighty 
causes us, at times, to be forsaken by our fellow-beings, it 
is but to manifest His glory in the midst of our sufferings, 
and, when we are most guilty, to show the mercy of a 
Father. Be comforted, then, in the assurance that I am 
tranquil, and resigned to the will of my Maker ; and accept 
my earnest wishes, that God will never forsake you, nor 
withdraw from you the light of his guidance in your future 
progress through life. 

(i GUIDO SORELLl." 

I put this letter into my friend's hands. He ran it over 



MY CONFESSIONS, 137 

in silence, with tears gathering in his eyes. He arose, pressed 
me warmly by the hand, and, without uttering a word by 
which I might interpret his feelings, he left me alone in 
my apartment to my own reflections. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 



On the blasted trunk of ^the mighty oak, when stricken 
by the lightning's power, how often may we note a solitary 
sprig still green and vigorous, which seems to indicate that 
the noble monarch of the forest still retains its vitality- 
But to those who know the destructive extent of the lightning's 
power, and are conscious that the oak cannot, like the fabled 
Phcenix, spring renewed from its own ruin, the tender germ, 
will appear only as the sad memento of those days when 
its noble parent stood forth towering in the pride of its 
superiority. 

Scarcely had Ugo Foscolo quitted Zurich, when I renewed 
my visits to Madame V., who, from the very peril that 
had threatened us both, had now become dearer, more in- 
teresting — indeed more necessary to me. But our renewed 
intercourse, which was to me a paradise, increased the sadness 
of my poor friend. She was too generous, however, to suffer 
her own sorrow to weigh against my feelings of delight. 
Having seen that my happiness and her own welfare and 
peace of mind were no longer compatible, she at once formed 
her resolve ; and generously sacrificing her own feelings, 
adopted a system towards me, which she was convinced would, 
at its maturity, procure me substantial happiness, though it 
would indeed exhibit a different form and other hues from that 
which had recently been so ruthlessly and irreparably destroyed, 
The days of calmness, of confidence, of happiness and love had 



138 MY CONFESSIONS. 

now set to nie. Another dawn had broken in upon me, 
disclosing to my heart a reality in all its sad colourings. 
I bent my brow with the superstitious feeling of one awaken- 
ing from a terrible dream ; and never from that moment 
did my noble friend behold that brow unclouded or uncon- 
tracted by anxiety, even in the serenity of a smile. 

Zurich was too small a city to permit the knowledge of 
the late unfortunate circumstances being limited to the parties 
immediately interested ; and it may be easily imagined, that, 
in spite of every precaution used to prevent scandal, vague, 
though mischievous, rumours, soon began to circulate. 

The more vague and mysterious the rumour which becomes 
current, the more is man's imagination excited to analize 
its features. Each interprets the circumstance according to 
his own individual feelings, whether of friendship, jealousy, 
hatred, envy or indifference. Seldom does it admit of a 
favourable colouring — such is human nature. 

Although I was fortunate enough to be on good terms 
with every one, I now became the subject of whispers, and, 
not unfrequently, of mute tokens of curiosity between those 
I encountered in the public walk, the street, the concert 
room, or at the assemblies. 

I soon became conscious of this treatment ; and though 
these people really wished me no harm, I could not but 
resent their conduct, and became solitary and miserable, not 
knowing which way to turn, nor upon whom to vent my 
vexation and my grief. 

Madame V. was doomed to listen patiently to the daily 
enumeration of the fancied insults I received : and to my 
reiterated complaints of the wanton cruelty of her coun- 
trymen — 

" Guido," she would mildly reply to me, " though my 
countrymen do not act with generosity to you in this instance, 
believe me they do not bear you the unkindness you imagine. 
You have received too many proofs of their estimation of 
your talents and character, to doubt their good- will. You 



MY CONFESSIONS. 1S9 

cannot surely forget their preference of you, as a professor, 
over all competitors that have presented themselves at Zurich. 
No, Guido, men are, for the most part weak, but they are 
not evil. It will be for your own misery, if you should 
so picture them. Their conduct towards you will be materially 
influenced by the good or evil motives you attribute to them. 
But, admitting even that all were debased, it would be better 
to blind one's- self to such a conviction, lest life might soon 
become too burdensome to bear. Remember, it is your lot 
to dwell among men. Do not forget that man is so con- 
stituted in this world, that peace of mind is only to be 
obtained in this sterile desart, by cherishing that counsel 
imparted to us by divine lips, ' love thy neighbour/ When 
man ceases to love his fellow, he will soon hate and despise 
himself ; for there is no human virtue which does not originate 
in love or sympathy for our fellow-beings. Deprive man 
of love and forbearance and he sinks to a level with the brute. 
Suffer not, my young friend, this gall of misanthropy to mingle 
in the feelings of a heart which came forth pure and generous 
from the hands of its Creator. At one-and- twenty years, 
you should not curse the world. How many sweets in ex- 
istence, which you are well fitted to enjoy, would be thereby 
denied to you ? and how many opportunities of doing good 
to your neighbour would be lost to one, predisposed to acts 
of kindness by the natural feelings of his heart ? — Suffer me 
then to teach you the secret of rendering yourself contented. 
But will you attentively weigh it in your mind, will you 
profit by my counsel ? — If so, remember then, that, in order 
to pass through life tranquil and unruffled by collision with 
your fellow-men, who all differ in some particulars from 
each other, the foundation of your own self-respect is based 
upon love and tolerance for others. Then you will be invul- 
nerable to every shaft that may be levelled at you; or like a giant 
when looking on the pigmy beings breathing war against 
him, smiles at their vain effort to wound him, and generously 
turns aside that he may not crush them by a single, though 



HO MF CONFESSIONS. 

involuntary movement. Fie, Guido, that you should give so 
much importance to mere shadows. . . .that you should place in 
their power the peace of your mind ! 

" Pveason not on such as them ; 
But glance. • . .and pass them by." 

Have I succeeded in convincing, in calming you — are you 
restored to peace with your fellow-men ?" 

When she concluded, she fi^ed upon me a look which 
seemed to reflect the rays of that heaven which inspired 
her with such divine sentiments, whilst the benignant smile 
that illumined her countenance bespoke the joy she felt in 
interpreting mine .... in beholding her efforts crowned with 
success — though not a word from me in reply had assured her 
of her triumph — finally, in her assurance, that not merely calm, 
I was as it were beatified, and truly in peace with all mankind. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

How seldom are the will and the power in unison with each 
other ! The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is ever lagg- 
ing, and too often rebellious. As the sweet words of my 
friend fell upon my ear, a tide of harmony seemed to pour 
into my soul : it was a harmony that would have attuned the 
feelings of the savage to humanity. An unearthly peace took 
possession of me ; but no sooner had they ceased, than my 
mind seemed as though once more wrapt in the silence of 
the tomb. From this moment each interval of calm became 
to me the harbinger of a tempest, whose fury fell more poig- 
nantly upon my heart, from its abrupt contrast with the hour 
of sunshine, until at length life itself became to me an in- 
supportable burthen. Time wore on, and my frame, in con- 
sequence of the mind having undergone so long a struggle, 



MY CONFESSIONS. 141 

now gave tokens that its human weakness w T as unequal to sup- 
port a farther contest. It was then that my sweet friend, who 
had watched my welfare w T ith the anxiety with which man's 
guardian angel looks on the being intrusted to his protecting 
vigilance felt the necessity of a last sacrifice. She armed herself 
with courage, resolving rather to die than to swerve from her 
resolution. With so obstinate a character as mine, the gentle 
creature felt assured that, to attain her object, it would be neces- 
sary to proceed with extreme caution, though, at the same 
time, with ingenuousness. But as she soon perceived that 
dealing with me ingenuously, availed her not, she had recourse 
to stratagem — and succeeded. 

Florence and Cleofe now became the constant theme of her 
conversation with me. This she persisted in for several months, 
But, while thus recalling my native country and the image of 
my sister to my remembrance, I might have fancied myself 
transported thither, and once more in communion with my 
dear Cleofe, still she failed in producing the desired effect — 
that of awakening within me the irresistible desire to re-visit, 
and dwell again in my own land, and to embrace its dear inha- 
bitants. No — I could have sacrificed a thousand Florences, and 
even Cleofe herself to have retained her alone, whose presence 
had now become so necessary to me. She had now exhausted 
all her powers of eloquence and soft persuasion. These had 
contributed but to render me yet more firm in my resolve,- 
which was to die in my youth at Zurich, rather than exist far 
from her, either in Florence, or elsewhere. She at length per- 
ceived that, in order to save me, artifice was her only resource. 
She therefore submitted to the necessity of employing it, and, 
for the first time in her life, spoke to me in a tone, which was 
not the impulse of her heart. 

My struggle had now lasted eighteen months, when one 
evening upon my return to my apartments, I found lying on 
my table a packet addressed to me. On opening it, I beheld 
within it an elegant gold chain, a bouquet of flowers, and a 
letter, the contents of which were as follow : 



142 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" Dear Guido, 

" There is no virtue the attainment of which has not been 
purchased by a sacrifice ; and no sacrifice has ever been made, 
but at the expense of pain. Virtue is the smile of the soul; 
Pain is the sorrowing of humanity. But since the practice of 
the one is indispensable to all who desire to make this short 
existence the pathway to that " peace which passeth human 
understanding/' we must nobly resign ourselves to the visita- 
tion of the other, acknowledging it as a maxim, that " it is 
the will of the Eternal that unalloyed happiness should not 
dwell on earth : nor that there should be true peace save that 
which emanates from virtue." But if we navigate the frail 
bark of our mortal nature with righteousness as our rudder, 
and with faith as our anchor, we may defy the storms that are 
constantly agitating the sea of human existence. 

" So far have thorns out-numbered the flowers in your path 
from infancy to boyhood, and even now at your entrance on 
the wider field of manhood, that perhaps in comparing your 
journey with that of many of your fellow-travellers, you may 
be tempted to murmur against the justice of that Being, who, 
in His inscrutable judgments, gathers from the clouds on the 
one hand, and from the milder heaven on the other, the mate- 
rials of those elements which are to compose our happiness or 
misery. Let me beseech you, to close your eyes on external 
objects, but for one moment, and turn them inwardly upon 
yourself. Examine your own heart ; then ask yourself— Had 
I the power, would I exchange my destiny with that of the 
greatest ones of the earth ? Never ! will be your heart's 
response. The sorrow I have borne, has shed a soothing me- 
lancholy upon my soul, which I would not now part with for all 
the excitement of the short-lived joy of a fading existence. 
My misfortunes in teaching me the vanity of this life, have 
prompted me to aim at the attainment of one far more beau- 
tiful, should it please the fountain of goodness to render me 
worthy of it. Had I known naught else but an unruffled ex- 



MY CONFESSIONS. 143 

istence, might I not have been dazzled by such perpetual en- 
jovment, or from its very monotony have become insensible to 
so great a gift ? The clouds which so thickly and darkly over- 
cast my horizon, have been my monitors : they have taught 
me by their warning appearance to think, to reflect, and 
to hope. Clothed in the wings of faith, I have been enabled to 
penetrate their intervening obscurity, until, arriving at the con- 
fines of a celestial serenity, I have gladdened my heart with 
the contemplation of the goodness of the Great Infinite. Would 
I exchange my own being for that of another ? Oh ! no. It 
would be rebelling against my God, arid digging the grave of 
my own destruction. Sweet to my heart is the dependance in 
which it has pleased God I should dwell ; for, too probably, 
riches would have proved to me the snare into which the fallen 
angels would have allured me to my ruin. My exiled exist- 
ence is not without some countervailing advantages ; for, had 
I still dwelt in my native place, and among my own kindred, 
I might never have so clearly observed the bondage of my 
unhappy country, and never offered up my anxious prayers for 
its emancipation. I can rejoice too in the very limitation of 
my talents ; for, though they are not such as in my foolish pre- 
sumption I might have coveted, yet their possession is a gift 
from Heaven, which enables me to appreciate what is truly 
beautiful in this state of existence. The neglect, the 'persecu- 
tion* the hatred and the injustice I have suffered from my fel- 
low-mortals have, through God's mercy, benefited my mind 
and heart. They have induced me to seek a source of enjoy- 
ment, far removed from the sphere of man's limited power. Their 
asperities have, by collision, softened the ruggedness of my own 
nature, and have by the power of contrast, enabled me the better 
to discern — to cherish virtue. My faults — my own characteristic 
weaknesses are, I might almost say, dear to me. They have 
constantly served to humble me ; and, by proving my own no- 
thingness, they have made me sensible of the power and good- 
ness of Him who can raise me from my present debasement to 
the number of His elect, and to His kingdom in heaven. Would 



144 MY CONFESSIONS. 

I then change my own state of being for that of another ? Oh ! 
no. I thank thee, my Creator — my heavenly Master, that 
Thou hast made me that I am, and taught me what I may be, 
provided I depart not from Thy precepts, and resign myself with 
cheerful submission to Thy dispensations. " Such I anticipate, 
dear Guido, will be your heart's response ? Be it so then. — 
Let me add yet another reflection. As God employs human 
agency in the trials and chastenings it is His will we should 
undergo, so does He equally avail Himself of His creature, man, 
in making him the instrument of happiness to His fellow- 
mo rt ah 

" Hitherto it has been His decree that I should have been a 
source of sorrow and unquiet to you ; but He has at length 
listened to my prayer, and chosen me to be henceforth the 
instrument of your good. Another dawn is about to break 
upon you, whose opening promise is the harbinger of so bright 
a sunshine, that you will, in gratitude to yourMaker henceforth 
bask in calmness beneath its rays. But, remember, Guido, 
that that God, who is preparing for you so brilliant a destiny, 
requires that man, in obedience to His inspirations, should at 
once choose the path He points out to him, and even abandon 
those he best loves, and thereby walk in his way w T ith the faith 
of Abraham. To be brief, then, Guido, — this is no longer a land 
for you to dwell in. It is God's will that you should quit it. 

" You must feel how well I know you, and you will not deny 
that when, from dwelling on a fatal spot, the youthful mind 
becomes embittered by misfortune, it is no longer capable of 
acting with energy, or judging of its present or future welfare. 
To become the slave of circumstances, and obstinately sacrifice 
oneself to one's own infatuation, is the mark of a depraved 
mind. You are born with a soul above this weakness ! Do not 
then, by your actions, contradict the nobleness of your charac- 
ter ; but, in the first days of your youth, make that effort to 
which Heaven itself directs you. Do you fear that God will 
abandon you ? Oh, no ! — your first step shall no sooner be 
taken, than Heaven will interpose its aid to guide you ; and, 



MY CONFESSIONS. 145 

after a very brief period, it will prove to you that man — 
man alone works his own destiny upon earth. Reflect, Guido, 
that what I write is the inspired offspring of long and ardent 
prayer. Listen, then, to the voice of Heaven speaking through 
me in warning, and neglect it not, lest it make itself heard to 
you in dread command. Listen, in gratitude, to a Father's 
counsel, rather than await the fiat of a God who will deliver it 
to you amid the terrors of Sinai. 

" Guido, let us no longer deceive ourselves. Our ardent 
sentiment of friendship is displeasing to Heaven. That it is 
so, we must ourselves feel convinced from the little happiness it 
has ever afforded us. Of our own free will, then, let us sepa- 
rate ; and let us learn, as becomes true christians, to forsake the 
object dear to us, at the sound of Christ's invitation — " fol- 
low me ;" and at the sight of the Cross, at the foot of which, 
when we shall have breathed our last, we shall awake to eter- 
nal life in the Lord. The many and severe trials experienced 
during your expatriation, you will acknowledge, on your return 
home, to have been productive of much good. You will have 
learned how to know mankind and to understand your own heart. 
The germs of virtue and talent which are already springing up in 
your character, will grow luxuriantly beneath your native sky, 
and obtain for you the esteem of your fellow men, and trie love 
of your God. The presence of your much-loved sister Cleofe, 
will amply compensate for the loss of one, who in spirit will still 
be with you in her morning and evening orisons. Separation 
and distance will sanctify our mutual sentiment ; and, in the 
consciousness of having sacrificed a deep feeling to the will 
of our Maker and to the love of virtue, the tear which will, 
perchance, sometimes start to the eye in reflecting upon our 
long, though necessary, separation, will yet fall, deprived of half 
its bitterness. Return then to your paternal roof. Apply dili- 
gently to study, and endeavour to exhibit to the world, every 
succeeding year of existence which the Almighty may grant 
you, some signal proof of your increasing talents and worth. 

" Guido, I offer this not merely as the counsel of a friend, 

H 



146 MY CONFESSIONS. 

who anxiously prays for your welfare, but as a solemn com- 
mand. Refuse to hearken and to profit by it, and you will 
forfeit my esteem. The continuance of that, is the price of 
your obedience. You know me too well to suppose that I 
could cherish one whom I could no longer esteem. 

<e If, however, deaf to my entreaties and to my commands, 
you should persist in remaining here, offending both God and 
man, know then, ungrateful Guido, that I must speedily be sacri- 
ficed by your obstinacy, for I feel myself unequal to support any 
longer the consciousness of being an object of slander through- 
out the city. 

" Leave Zurich, and you will save me- — remain, and I am 
lost. 

" Till death, 

" GUIDo's FRIEND. " 



CHAPTER XXIX. 



" Leave Zurich, and you vfill save me — remain, and I am 
lost !" These fatal words I repeated with frantic energy, at 
the conclusion of this memorable letter, during the perusal of 
the earlier part of which I had continued perfectly calm. 

After a burst of anguish, I buried my face in my hands, and 
remained for some time motionless, unable to pronounce a syl- 
lable or shed one tear to relieve the oppression at my heart. 
Oh! Silvio*! could I describe to thee the despair with which 
the memory of that moment even now almost overwhelms me, 
after the lapse of so many, many years, hardly could thy sensitive 
mind conceive the misery I endured on that fatal night. Alas ! 
to feel intensely and acutely, to suffer without the power of 
expressing what we feel, or the cause of our suffering, is 
the common lot of humanitv. To those stricken, what alter- 



MY CONFESSIONS. 147 

native is presented to their choice, if unsustained by religion ? 
Either to suffer the heart to sicken and wither in the morning 
of youth, or, by striking with the stern axe of despair at the 
root of those tender affections, the cultivation of which would 
make this earth another Eden, to render it an unfruitful desert, 
and thus drag on the remainder of an existence chilled by in- 
difference, and at last sink into the grave unloving and unbe 
loved ! 

Yet, the more I analyze my own character, the more I am 
persuaded that 

" In myself alone there lies the cause of woe; 
We check the soul, in each its heavenward flight, 
To rove in the pale — the fancied light 
Of Pleasure's wordly name !" 

How erroneously we accuse the temperament we receive at 
the hands of nature, as being the cause of our errors ! There 
are few evils in man's existence, from which he may not extri- 
cate himself by the exercise of reason and religious discipline. 

" Then I have lost her for ever !" I exclaimed, after a 
long silence ; " and with her have I lost all that is, and all that 
ever will be dear to me on earth ! Well, be it so. But I 
must not now abandon myself to grief : tears must not be shed 
here at Zurich. Extreme misfortune must be met by the ex- 
tremity of courage. "We will part without a tear; and, in the 
absence of him whom she will never again behold, let her 
cherish the memory of one, who has shown himself deserving 
of the tenderest regard, of the esteem, the friendship, and the 
affection of a beautiful and virtuous woman." 

During the whole of that night and part of the following 
day I occupied myself in writing farewell letters to my pupils, 
and in making my personal adieu to Orelli, Sperli and Fuseii, 
all of whom expressed the greatest astonishment and sorrow 
at the abruptness of my departure. " I have long anticipated 
this!" said Orelli, holding me affectionately by the hand and 

h 2 



148 MY CONFESSIONS. 

with a countenance, though tearless— for he was too much 
of a Swiss to weep — much paler than usual, while his choked 
utterance betrayed the emotion he would have concealed. 
" But go," he continued, "it is perhaps better that it should 
be so ; and, after the lapse of a few years, we may see you re- 
turn among us a happier man !" 

Thus commenced my last evening at Zurich ; and now, hav- 
ing obtained my passport, taken my place in the diligence, and 
ai'ranged every thing for my departure on the morrow, nothing 
remained for me to do but to take a last farewell of her, the 
dearest to me of all Zurich's inhabitants. 

When impelled by imperious necessity to a course of action 
at once perilous and inevitable, how often does a supernatural 
strength seem to lead us on to its accomplishment ! We ap- 
pear, as it were, gifted with the eagle's wing, endued with the 
recklessness of insanity, scarcely aware of the peril we are 
about to confront, or conscious of the desperation by which we 
are animated ; until, at length, when past the trial, we look back 
marvelling that strength, so limited as our own, had been able 
to extricate ourselves from such a difficulty. 

" Like he who long on treach'rous waters cast, 
Looks from the shore he has so lately won 
O'er the c'read deep — while panting from the past, 
He trembles at the perils he has run." 

Transported, how I know not, thither, nor by what invisible 
power, I found myself at the door of my friend. I opened it 
and entered her apartment. She was seated in a corner of the 
room, occupied in writing. A lamp stood before her, whose 
light shed so unearthly a hue over her usually pale countenance, 
that, at the distance at which I stood, she seemed to me more 
like a beautiful spirit than the lovely being of mortality she 
was. * 

"Guido!" she uttered involuntarily, starting at beholding 
me at so unusual an hour. 

" I have obeyed you," I said calmly : "I have bidden adieu 



MY CONFESSIONS, 149 

to my pupils, I have obtained ray passport, and to-morrow, at 
eleven, I quit Zurich !" 

"Tomorrow!" she repeated, vehemently: "Oh God, 
what have I sacrificed !" and drooping her head, she buried 
her face in her hands. 

At these words, together with the tone in which they were 
uttered, a flash of lightning seemed to glance through my 
brain, which, more fearful than the darkness in which I had 
been hitherto involved, seemed to display to me the reality of 
my position for a moment, but to disappear and envelope me in 
a yet deeper gloom. 

" How !" I exclaimed, no longer master of my emotions, 
" are you, then, surprised or grieved that I have obeyed you ? 
Could it be that you knew me so imperfectly as to doubt, for an 
instant, that I would a thousand times have sacrificed my 
happiness to have preserved your reputation, which is even 
dearer to me than your life ? Should I have been worthy of 
you, had I refused to understand the concluding part of your 
letter/' 

** Fatal interpretation V f she exclaimed, interrupting me, 
" alas ! what has it cost me ! — Oh, Guido, when I paused to 
glance my eye over those gloomy characters, how did my heart 
reproach me for having traced that which it had not dictated ! 
No, Guido, those are the first and only sentiments, amid the 
many your friend has conveyed to you, which have found no 
echo within her own heart. How could you believe I heeded 
the whispers of the vulgar crowd which encompassed me ? — No ! 
—Mine is a soul, which, conscious of the integrity of its 
affection for you, would have defied the censure of the whole 
world. But be it so — God's Will be done ! — This fatal 
step has cost me much of what is to me dear on earth ; but it 
has obtained from heaven your happiness, and I thank God for it. 
Pardon me, Guido, for having but this once deceived you. Well 
have I judged you. Rather than separate from me, you would 
yourself have been the sacrifice ; and no argument would have 



150 MY CONFESSIONS* 

dissuaded you from your purpose. Nothing, therefore, remained 
for me but the employment of this innocent artifice : I trusted 
in it, and am not deceived. — And now, Guido, I must confess 
to you, that I did not for one moment anticipate your resolve 
would have been so fearfully sudden ! It has fallen upon me 
like the thunderbolt, prostrating, though not overwhelming its 
victim, who, though from afar, had watched the gathering 
tempest gain nearer and nearer upon her, still was reposing 
her trust in the beautiful ether which still opened upon her 
head from above. But the Cross should be to us the Cross of 
sacrifice ! From henceforth I embrace it in faith and hope ; and 
I bless God that He has called me to the burden ! — And 
now, dear Guido, with this last embrace, receive my long fare- 
well and my blessing/' 

Thus saying, she bent forward and kissed my forehead ;. 
then, suddenly starting from her seat, she glided into a little 
cabinet adjoining the room in which we stood, the door of 
which was always open. 

What were my feelings when thus left alone, I will not 
attempt to describe. With a hesitating step I approached the 
door of the apartment, perhaps with the intention of quitting 
it ; but an irresistible feeling brought me once more to the 
very threshold of the cabinet. I there stood motionless, for 
then I beheld her on her knees before a crucifix, in deep and 
silent prayer. To break in upon her devotions, for the brief 
satisfaction of listening once more to the sound of her voice, 
seemed a sacrilege. Once more I sprang towards the door 
of the apartment — opened it — and closed it upon myself for 
ever! 



MY CONFESSIONS. 151 



CHAPTER XXX. 

I had no sooner descended the staircase and reached the 
outside of the house, than I felt, as it were, a new creature. I 
seemed to breathe anew ; my heart beat with recovered pulsa- 
tion, while its first echoes sprang to my lips in the ejaculation 
of " God, I thank thee !" At each step, which carried me 
nearer to my own apartments, a celestial calm took possession 
of my mind; each fibre of my frame seemed to be endued with in- 
creased vigor, and when I stood within ray own little domicile, 
peace — I might say a species of joy — animated me. Oh, the 
goodness of the Lord ! oh Providence Divine, how lovely is thy 
heavenly peace ! Oh, how unlike to that which the seekers of 
worldly vanity weary themselves to obtain ! — But had I de- 
served it ? — No : certainly not ; for, the difficult sacrifice I had 
made in separating myself from her who was then, and has 
ever been, dearest to me on earth, sprang not from the sug- 
gestions of duty, religion, morality, or virtue. 

My obstinate determination to perish in the flower of my 
youth, hating and despising all mankind, rather than quit her I 
loved, might well have forfeited for myself both earthly peace 
and eternal beatitude, An inevitable necessity arising from a 
merely human feeling — respect for her reputation- — had dictated 
this my last effort ; so that, submitting to this necessity, un- 
dignified as it was by the concurrence of my own free and 
generous will, I performed a sacrifice which, to those who 
knew not the impelling motives, bore the semblance of con- 
summate virtue and rare magnanimity. Oh, how many 
actions, apparently pure and disinterested in themselves, when 
dragged forth into the glare of the day of Judgment, shall 
appear stripped of their celestial garb, and stand bare in their 
native grossness and deformity ! 

It was, then, a pure and comforting ray of divine mercy 



152 MY CONFESSIONS. 

that had shed the peace I felt within me. It was part of 
the recompense of my sweet friend's nohle and magnani- 
mous sacrifice : it was the reflection of her virtue which had 
illumined my soul and whispered me that her prayer had been 
heard. 

But although the fever of my mind had thus miraculously 
subsided, I was still too much excited to think of repose ; be- 
sides, I was unwilling that the last few hours I was ever to 
spend in Zurich, should be wasted in the forgetfulness of sleep. 
I therefore once more seated myself at my little table, and 
beguiled the hours of the night in alternately reflecting, and 
committing to paper the feelings awakened by my actual situa- 
tion. 

Morning dawned ; I perused the following lines — the fruit of 
the night's vigil. 



THE ADIEU. 



My dream is past ! the vision o'er ! 

I awake as from the dead ! 
Oh, happiness ! thou art no more, 

Alas ! where art thou fled ! 

Oh ! what relentless, iron hand 

Hath snatched the veil aside, 
Revealing not one kindly strand 

To stem life's troubled tide ? 

That veil which o'er earth's bosom thrown 

With soft delusive power, 
E'en clothes the weed, in folly sown, 

Like Nature's sweetest flower. 

Its shadowy folds how oft reflect 

Reality's impress, 
And happiness is gaily deck'd 

In sweet illusion's dress, 



MY CONFESSIONS. ] 53 



Till, like the dreams which sportive play 
Around the slumb'rer's head, 

Each wings its flight at opening day ; 
And morn beholds them dead ! 

Oh blindness that I had not known, 

At whose imperious nod, 
The brightest visions soon have flown ! 

Thine, truth ! — illusion's rod ! 

Yet, in my dream, a form so light 

Entranc'd my eager eyes ; 
It seemed as though some spirit bright 

Had left its native skies, 

Embodying in its earthly mould 

Its own ethereal love : 
'Twas angel's form, as we behold, 

In visions from above ! 

Twas such a form as Raphael might 
Have dreamed his guardian saint, 

Or pictur'd as th' ideal bright 
Each heart alone can paint. 

She spoke, and in that voice's tone 

The echoes from on high 
Seem'd stealing o'er the sense, for none 

E'er heard such minstrelsy. 

Like Lethe's stream, her presence taught 

Forgetfulness of woe ; 
The heart forgot the past, and naught 

Of dark presage would know ! 

But that it was delusion's cheat 
My heart would sometimes guess ; 

I clung still fondly to Deceit, 
And welcom'd happiness ! 

Oh ! sweet it is to fly oneself, 

To feel oblivion near ; 
A waking dream is life itself, 

Unsullied by a tear ! 

H 8 



154 MY CONFESSIONS. 

But soon — too soon th' illusion's o'er, 

And life resumes its sting; 
We wake more deeply to deplore 

How vain is fancy's wing I 

So thus, sweet saint, when 'neath thy sun 

Such Heav'n it was to me ; 
My own forgetfulness was won 

In contemplating thee. 

1 knew that though my heart was fond. 
Nought thou couldst be to me ; 

But still 1 revell'd in our bond 
Of sweetest sympathy. 

How little joy, alas ! can now 

The present give to me ! 
My heart in silence seems to bow, 

It dare not speak of thee ! 

But may life's stream for thee e'er glide 

Unruffled by a storm, 
Reflecting in the tranquil tide 

But thy lov'd virtue's form ! 

Oh ! still live on the joy of those 

Whom destiny hath blest, 
To breathe thine atmosphere's repose, 

Near thee to find their rest. 

Enjoy that peace whose holy birth 
In heav'n o'er man descends ; 

That peace, from which alone on earth 
Our happiness depends ! 

Encompass'd by her lovely beam 

Vainly will storms arise, 
And threatening vapours, which oft seem 

To emulate the skies. 

Should e'er the light of Heav'n appear 
Less beauteous to thine eye, 

With her thine inmate, thou wilt wear 
A soul's serenity. 



MY CONFESSIONS. ^55 

Then, Fare thee well ! — the hour hath told 

Its warning voice to me ! 
1 go, where sorrow doth unfold 

The path from joy and thee. 

Oh think ! — but ah my words are naught \ 

So distant now we dwell, 
That but the buoyant wing of thought 

Can ever break that spell \ 

I go, but oh 1 'tis bitterness 

To feel an object nigh 
Endowed with angel's loveliness, 

Then lose her thus— ah why ? 

Two hours before my departure, I received from her the 
following letter : 

" Guido, dearer to me than ever ! 

" Never did virtue's altars teem with sacrifice but that 
a celestial flame consumed the welcome offering, in token 
of its acceptance by the Deity. So does each noble action 
carry with it its own recompense, in the peace derived from 
the consciousness that we have done that which is pleasing 
to God. 

ef From this hour, dear Guido, must be dated the com- 
mencement of your happiness — a happiness of which, in its 
very dawn, it has pleased God to select me to be the instru- 
ment — a happiness not yet enjoyed, but, when felt, inalterable 
and all your own. 

" Your early life has, by the wisdom of Providence, been 
so attended with visitations, of sorrow and misfortune, that 
your mind, subdued, though fortified by these trials, will 
enable you to meet without surprize, dread or despair, any 
event that may befall you in your future career. Depart then, 
dear Guido, with the assurance that God blesses and pro- 
tects you. 



156 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" Return to your country and to the bosom of your family, 
to whom your long absence has rendered you yet more dear ; 
but recall not Zurich to mind without blessing the hour in 
which God had conducted your steps thither as to that beacon, 
whence He has been pleased to reveal Himself to you, less 
as a Judge than as a Father of mercy. 

" Let literature be your occupation and your delight, re- 
membering that 

" It forms our pleasure here below, 
And opens the gate to heav'n." 

" Abandon your diffidence in your own talents, and do not 
hesitate to aspire to the glory of a poet's fame. You have 
faculties, which, should they never conduct you to the 
summit of fame, will yet guide you to so high an eminence 
that you wi]l leave thousands far behind you. 

•' The beams of the sun of your own Italy will warm you 
into an admiration of the works of your Creator, which 
will inspire you — for they are too beautiful not to bear the 
stamp of goodness — with love for Him, and good-will towards 
man. 

" Your young mind, nurtured amid storms and in the 
frozen atmosphere of a northern clime, will then melt into a 
deeper love for that Being, 

" Who bids the ready smile succeed the tear !" 

" It will suggest to you images, which your fancy will embody 
for the instruction of others ; you will feel as one who, having 
long contemplated the gathering clouds, sees with brighter 
glory the re-appearance of the azure sky ! 



He knows not peace — her joys to him are vain 
Who has not dwelt amid war's troubled reign !" 



MY CONFESSIONS. ] 57 

"In the society of your loved sister, and in the bosom of your 
family — which Alfieri so truly designates the true and only 
inlet to happiness — the dark colourings of this scene of sorrow 
will present themselves fainter and fainter to your retrospec- 
tion, until at length the roseate tints of a sweet serenity — 
so long concealed from your view, which could never have 
been enjoyed had you remained here— w T ill stand revealed. 

" Guido, I know you so well — so truly have I read your 
character, that 1 dare venture to predict that you will attain, 
by a path of little difficulty, the christian's haven in peace 
with your God. But, my dear friend, I pray you, neglect 
not what I am about to add, and receive it in kindness. 

" You will return to an enslaved country, which, indeed, 
after many centuries of servitude, has now, for the first 
time, become aware that she is in bondage. This conscious- 
ness may be hailed as the peaceful dawn of liberty ; but the 
day that opens with a serene firmament is not always passed 
without a storm. 

" The independence of Italy is inevitably secure ; but no less 
certain it is, that the basis of its triumph, like the contest of op- 
posing religions, must be founded on the bones of its martyrs. 
How many of her sons have already fallen in the struggle ! 
but many, many more will yet become victims, ere the people 
are made sensible of the heaviness of their chains, and discover 
at length that they are not slaves, but that theirs is the true 
sovereignty. 

' But, Guido, I warn you to avoid faction. You are not 
born for strife. Nevertheless, do not suppose I hold you 
pusillanimous because I counsel you to eschew a political or 
military career. Yon are born to promote peace in every 
form, and to encourage every domestic virtue,— You are born 
to feel and to teach that the heart is worth the conquest of 
a thousand worlds ; and that happy is the man who dedicates 
the fleeting hours of an uncertain existence to the government 
and the welfare of his own heart, 

' Follow undeviatingly the noble path in which Providence 



158 MY CONFESSIONS. 

has placed you* To each individual hath God assigned his 
part in this drama of life. To each part is attached its attendant 
duty, which, if religiously fulfilled to its close, will secure a 
Paradise of bliss, equally to the humble subject as to the mag- 
nanimous Sovereign. 

" Heed not those who may deride you for avoiding a 
career of strife and danger, to pursue the only path you are 
born to enter upon. Should they deem you weak or deficient 
in courage, mind them no more than you would the croaking 
of a raven. Leave them to struggle amid the billows of 
existence, whilst you will continue, in your unobtrusiveness, 
not less dear to your country, nor less desirous of her welfare, 
than the lofty Lombard spirit of him whom Virgil met in 
Purgatory : 

u Still o'er his laud a fading glance he throws, 
Like the fierce lion crouching to repose." 

" If you would ever preserve virtue's path, cease not to love 
your Maker above all things, and let your life be one continued 
prayer. This you will be able to do, when you are in a crowd 
as when you are alone — in business as in repose — in joy as in 
soitow. Be mindful not to court applause for your virtue, or 
you will find it not less hazardous than the scandal awakened 
by the shamelessness of vice. Do not be influenced in doing 
what is right by the false pride of presenting a good example 
to others. That example is the best, which consists in the 
silent exemption from evil. 

" Give freely to your relations and friends, when it is 
in your power. But would you remain at peace with men, 
look for neither gratitude nor recompense at their hands. 
My dear Guido, it too often happens that those we benefit, 
thereby become our enemies. But be not discouraged by so 
melancholy a truth. If your reward be ingratitude, the 
Author of all goodness who has inspired you to aid the un- 



MY CONFESSIONS. ] 5Q 

deserving, is Himself not unmindful of your actions, and will 
recompense you a thousand-fold. 

u With these few lines, dictated by the spirit of truth, 
from one who loves and honours you, you will, with a 
lighter heart, quit a city, whose inhabitants have not under- 
stood your character. But, if in future life, you should feel 
sometimes disposed to hate my countrymen for their conduct 
to you, recall to your remembrance the characters I here trace, 
and bless God, that from a mass of mankind, amongst whom 
He had declared it a special grace to meet one friend, you 
have found two in this small city, in my husband, and 
myself. 

" It will not be very long now ere the world and I shall bid 
each other farewell. It is now several years that I have 
felt myself slowly, yet sweetly, gliding from this abode of 
sorrow and separation. But so long as I am still permitted to 
remain on earth, you will continue to be an object in my mental 
vision ; you my friend, next to my husband, the dearest. 
You shall be — disdain not the title — my dear disciple ; and 
when at length, through the merits of my Saviour, my spirit 
wings its heavenward flight, 1 will— should the consciousness 
and memory of earthly things be still be permitted to me — pray 
at the throne of the Eternal, that the Peace of God may be 
ever with you, during your pilgrimage upon earth ! 

'' Upon your arrival at Florence, salute Cleofe for me. 
Tell her how dear you are to me, and fail not to write 
me an account of your journey, which I augur will be a 
happy one. Direct your letters for me to my husband, who 
will himself convey them to me with the seal unbroken. 
He begs through me, to assure you of his inviolable friendship, 
and to promise, on his part, as steadfast an interest in your 
welfare, as though you were akin to us. And now, Guido, 
prove yourself worthy of your friends and of yourself, by 
courageously completing a noble sacrifice. Implore a Blessing 
upon a city that must ever be dear to you, and then depart 



160 MY CONFESSIONS. 

from it with a smile on your lip, and with serenity in your 
heart. For ever, 

" YOUR FRIEND." 

" P.S. — My husband begs me to add, that he proposes 
remitting to you an annual interest of twenty louis for the 
three hundred belonging to you, in his hands. To this he 
has permitted me to add a small sum, which I have set apart 
from the very handsome allowance with which he furnishes 
me. At Florence, where so small a sufficiency is required 
to live comfortably, forty louis, added to what you may 
acquire by teaching and literary undertakings, will constitute 
a respectable annuity, and enable you to live at your ease, 
and on equality with your friends. Let my husband and myself 
together, and for ever, hold a place in your affections. Go, com- 
mence your journey, and may God prosper you — Farewell ! 
until we meet again in paradise." 

After another ejaculatory " thank God," which sprang so 
spontaneously and so sincerely from my heart, that I felt 
as though it were immediately wafted to the throne of the 
Eternal, I prostrated myself on the earth, and kissing that 
dear land, I humbly prayed through tears, rather than in words, 
that God would bless and protect that nation so lofty, so free, . 
so invincible, so hospitable; which, though divided in different 
cantons, still continued one family in peace and unanimitv. 
I prayed that, if the blood-hounds which surround her, should 
again attempt — as they had done — to seek her destruction, 
they might themselves be humbled in their pride. 

I then left that dear little chamber — the witness of so manv 
pure and innocent delights, and the tabernacle of so many 
salutary griefs. I then sought the apartment of my good 
landlord Kerez, and, embracing the assembled family whom 



MY CONFESSIONS. 16 1 

I left in tears, I quitted the house, and, accompanied by 
several of my pupils, whom I loved with the affection of 
a brother, and by some of my most intimate friends, I reached 
the place of departure. 

We took another and a last farewell ; and I entered the 
vehicle, which was to bear me thence for ever, with a tear in 
my eye, but with my heart at peace with my fellow-men and 
resigned to the Will of my Maker. 



* 



END OP PART II. 



PART III. 



PART III. 



CHAPTER I. 



(< And now a fairer sea invites my sail, 
And sets my spirit to the fav'ring gale ! 
My bark moves kindlier on — and leaves behind 
The memory of an ocean long unkind." 

Dante's Purgatorio, Canto II. 



It was within an hour of sunset, and the serene beauty 
of the firmament seemed to reflect a deeper azure, from its con- 
trast with the thousand vermillion clouds, which — suspended 
aloft in the air — formed, as an attendant train, a semi-circular 
arch, apparently immoveable, round the great orb of day. 

But two steps more — and behold me at the summit of 
the Appenines ! What a delicious prospect ! What a paradise 
on earth ! The Arno with its valley; and Florence — that city, 
which, so modest in her divine beauty, stands like the emerald 
amidst the brightest gems of Europe, encircled from without 



166 MT CONFESSIONS. 

by lofty mountains, which, gradually sloping towards her, 
terminate in gently swelling hills of perpetual verdure ; while 
the surrounding villas, rich in their luxuriance, seem to look 
on her with the admiration of idolatry ! 

Oh spectacle of unparalleled — of unspeakable beauty, where 
Earth appears to rival the Heavens, and seems to demand 
of them, " Am I not more beautiful than you ?" 

On beholding thee, the heart of the stranger yearns to 
thee in admiration ! How then must that of thy own sons 
bound towards thee ! — Beneath the magic influence of thy 
serene and temperate atmosphere, men, whose diseases had 
baffled human skill in their own country, awake to renovated 
health and vigour. Like the flame, which, after languish- 
ing for lack of nourishment, blazes forth anew when supplied 
with aliment, so do those infirm of health revive almost with- 
out the aid of medicine, in a brief period, to the enjoyment 
of restored power, and either return to their own land, blessing 
God for His mercy, or, as too often happens, re-commence 
an unholy existence. 

Beneath thy magic influence, thy children-enjoy almost unin- 
terruptedly the precious gift of health ! — It is the hand of the 
Creator visibly resting on the head of His creature ; and where 
is the bosom — which encloses not the heart of a brute — that 
beats not in sincere and holy thankfulness for so great a 
blessing ? — Yes, there the heart of man enjoys a perpetual 
holiday ; and if, in life, there be a balm for the broken heart, 
it is only while dwelling in thy heavenly climate that its efficacy 
can be experienced. 

Who will deny that Heaven ever smiled upon thee, and 
still continues to smile on thee, oh blessed Land of my 
fathers ! Divine city ! Parent of Dante, of Boccaccio, of 
Petrarch, of Machiavelli, of Galileo, of Amerigo Vespucci, 
of Giotto, of Michel Angelo, and of other lofty and sublime 
spirits, who, though Rome had indeed fallen from her high 
pinnacle of glory, still showed to her countiymen, that, while 
writhing under an inevitable yoke, their souls still triumphed 



MY CONFESSIONS. 167 

in the consciousness, that, like Minerva beneath the disguise 
of the mortal Mentor, when in servitude to Azael, they were 
the instructors of their ignorant and savage task-masters. 

Many and varied are the bitter draughts which life's chalice 
presents to the christian's lips, ere he can exchange this state 
of suffering for that of uninterrupted felicity ; but there is 
not a nail that binds me to my cross so painful in endurance 
as the necessity which compels me to dwell far away from 
Thee oh Florence ! my country ! — Cruel necessity ! thou 
art the spear in my side ! 

To thy imagination, Silvio, I refer the portraiture of 
my heart's joy, as I descended the Appenines — and to all 
who love their country and their kindred, I leave to judge 
of my feelings upon re-entering my native town, after so 
long an absence, and on beholding myself once more in the 
arms, and pressed to the bosom of my family, Words are 
inadequate to their expression. 



CHAPTER II. 



The delight experienced upon awakening for the first 
time beneath an Italian sun, is beyond the poet's fancy 
to conceive, or the brightest dream to depict to the mind. 
Italy is a spot where the Atheist, in despite of his own 
hardened obduracy, is compelled to acknowlege that, " the 
heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth 
his handy-work." 

In this beautiful country the hand of a merciful and boun- 
tiful Creator is made to appear so manifest, that the most 
callous must be impressed with reverence in contemplating 
His glorious works, while the good man will feel a double 
reliance on the Great Dispenser of those blessings ; and his 



168 MY CONFESSIONS. 

heart will swell with gratitude when he reflects that great and 
wonderful must be God's love for mankind in making men 
the objects of such endless, exquisite and harmonious en- 
joyment. 

When Absence has for any length of time hidden from us 
the countenances of our nearest kindred, in the first ecstasy 
of return, our recognition of their well-remembered features 
is generally indistinct. It is not until having slept a night's 
tranquil sleep in the paternal mansion, that we can fix our 
eyes steadily on the sweet faces of those so dear to us, and 
begin gradually to recognise those individuals we so 
tenderly love, and by whom we are so tenderly beloved — 
those who had tabernacled in their bosom so much of our 
own self, and who, by their presence, now restore to us 
what formed an entire drawback to our happiness, when absent 
from them. 

After enjoying the exquisite happiness of embracing 
one's kindred, and receiving again a parent's blessing, the 
first impulse of a well-regulated mind is to re-visit the temple 
of the Creator — to seek again those altars, at whose shrine 
he was first presented spotless at the invisible throne of the 
Eternal by those, who, next to his Maker, were to be on 
earth his most faithful friends, and who, when he was helpless, 
and unconscious, and hardly yet capable of other expressions 
than piteous lamentations, prayed that peace might be his 
future lot amid the tumults of the world ; purity, where all is 
impure ; and, finally, eternal life beyond the reach of the fell 
destroyer. At that altar, where in the first days of innocence 
he had prayed to his heavenly Father — at the foot of that 
altar, whose steps had received the tear shed in youth, in 
affliction, when not yet polluted by deadly sin — a tear which, 
though long since cancelled to the eye of man, is still visible 
to God ; at the foot of that altar, whence had ascended the 
prayer of man in the days of adolescence — a prayer ever audible 
to his Maker, though its utterance be unheard by his fellow- 
mortal ; at the foot of that altar Penitence pleads so strongly 



MY CONFESSIONS. 2 69 

m opposition to the just wrath of a Creator, that the anger 
of the Lord relents into mercy : and the sinner feels, in his 
heart, that God forgives him — that God loves him, 



CHAPTER III. 



To seek out some of mv friends, to encounter others in mv 
path, and to receive those who had come in quest of me, 
was my occupation for the remainder of that day. It was 
to me a day of Paradise ! Life possesses some few moments 
of the brightest happiness, sufficient alone to prompt us to 
acknowledge it to be the gift of a Divine hand. But to appre- 
ciate those moments, and to feel them to be really the gift of 
heaven, it is not less imperative that man should, next to 
God, love his fellow- mortal. 

He who knows not the sweets of friendship, is like the vine 
unsupported by the poplar-tree ; he is as the ivy prostrated on 
the ground — as a meadow unadorned with flowers — a ring 
from which the gem has dropped — a day without a sun — a 
burthen to himself and a stumbling block to others. Friend- 
ship is a natural craving of the human heart ; its possession 
is as delightful as it is necessary to us ; and innumerable are 
the advantages which result from it, when it is founded in 
faithfulness and truth. That spirit of benevolence and that 
sympathy of feeling which it awakens within the soul, and 
whose tie is yet closer than those of blood and relationship, is as 
refreshing to the heart, as, in the summer hour, is heaven's dew 
to the thirsty flower and the spring in the desert to the parched 
lip. It is like the expression of the angel's countenance, 
who, while he offers to the lip of mortality its destined cup of 
bitterness, sweetens it by his compassion and encouragement. 

How sweet it is, after a long separation, to feel oneself in 



170 :;t confessions, 

the presence, but, perhaps, more than all. to Listen once again 
to the voices of tfa ; :ve ! 

Itws Lug: and it ha: I been ;-: n ::: : Id ac- 

company my sister. Cleofe. to the T: ' "here 

hear, for the first time. Rossini's charming opera of 
La Gazza Lad 

I ^as s: anxious to reach the theatre, that Ciecfe and I 

;'.:-. d "r: : e e h e :". - . :e ever- 

tare. This car was destined to r. :ve me entire festivity 

to me : for, uf : :: entering =pier :.; ih 

illuminated, and : is of festal mag- 

2nce. I asked, " What event s helratt 

that evening ; ' and was answered and Duke, 

had just recovered from a most : as illness, was 

sd ;: pi 2sent hue. 91 

is Emperor of Austria, 
and father of Leopold lh J Duke, was 

a most amiable Prince, loving and beloved 
affable, pacific, anc always more mindful cf the interest of 
others than cf his own. His act m the 

applause and admiration of mankind. Holding a position 
at once so exalted ai : 
in his rule e he his 

were them ey :.eneld 

For three successive i?rz the : had 

been thrown open, to recer >us orisons of jects 

for the recovery of their I - ed their 
prayers ; and Ferdinand \ rat to re- 
appear in public, the even's blessing and oi 
his subjects 1 Love. 

Every heart now lotion, in expectatioi 

at. But ins shout 

uanse :. on toe assembly, and 

the unanimous waving of har sfi at nis appearance, were 



MY CONFESSIONS. 1 7 1 

but faint tributes of affection compared to the tears I beheld 
stealing down the cheeks of several of my acquaintance, 
who were actually members at that time of the society of the 
Carbonari* 

" But, is not the Duke your enemy ?'' I asked in an under 
tone of one of them ; " why then these tears }" 

" Our enemy \" he exclaimed; te can you believe, Guido, 
that in our society we ever hold the virtuous as our enemies ? 
Oh no— you know us but imperfectly if you judge of us thus. 
Ferdinand is a man, and a Prince, endowed with the rarest 
virtues, and naught else does he need attain to qualify him 
to become a brother Carbonaro." 

I smiled. With our short colloquy had also terminated the 
echo of that lengthened applause, which in its vortex had 
fortunately rendered inaudible the voice of the Carbonaro, 
a name, which was one day to become the terror of all 
the Italian Princes. Silence was now obtained ; after which 
the charming Mombelli sang " Di piacer mi bah a il cor/ 1 
with a tone and expression so sweet, that 

" Sooth'd into sweet forgetfulness,'* 

I experienced the whole evening, that, however man may 
declaim to the contrary, life has in it some moments of 
enjoyment, not more alloyed with the bitterness of human 
existence, than the drop of dew is mingled with dust when 
descending from a sandy hillock pure, round, and unbroken 
into the plain ; and that, at the termination of a day of 
such happiness, it is possible to close our eyes in a tranquil 
repose — blessing God— and by Him blessed ! 



CHAPTER IV. 



One day of happiness ! but one day did I say ? Oh no ! 
that more than one day's joy is permitted us here below, 

i 2 



272 MY CONFESSIONS, 

the two succeeding years of my existence can testify ; for 
during that period, not one adverse gale arose to interrupt 
my bark's tranquil course in its sea of undisturbed navi- 
gation. 

A native of Florence, the beautiful; a returned exile, and 
rendered, from my long absence, still dearer— if that were 
possible — to my father, to Cleofe, and the other members 
of my family ; a witness of their entire happiness, which was 
ensured either by their own means or by those I was enabled 
to add to the common stock, and by the health we each indi- 
vidually enjoyed ; valued by my friends, far beyond my merit, 
and with whom, from the fact of my having resided at Zurich, 
my nomenclature became " Guido, the great traveller ;" con- 
sidered a prodigy by many of my fellow Florentines, most 
of whom knew me by reputation, and many of them 
personally, from my having frequently performed in public 
and private theatricals as an amateur — the favorite pupil 
of the celebrated Morrocchesi ; invited, respected, courted 
by all ; loved by the greater part, hated by none. Oh ! 
how were it possible to have felt otherwise than happy ! 

Oh ! bright dream of days gone by ! — Sweet vision of de- 
parted joy ! — At thy retrospection a tear will start in my eye. 
Alas ! is it a crime to offer that one last sacrifice upon thy fair 
altar ? Oh no. Thou wert happiness ! and that happiness 
came from God ! Thou wert then His glorious work. Is it 
therefore unnatural or unreasonable, that the exile should 
now prostrate himself at thy shrine, with the mental ejacula- 
tion, that " his actual situation is misery?' and that, though 
resigned to it, one tear and one sigh should fall from his eyes, 
should escape from his heart ? 

The well-filled purse, that I had carried with me to 
Florence, and my annuity of forty louis from Zurich, 
together with my professional engagements to teach the 
French language, contributed to make the first six months, 
after my return to Florence, glide away in that sweet 



MY CONFESSIONS. 173 

indifference a9 to worldly anxiety — that uncalculating hap- 
piness — that repose of feeling which is lulled by the con- 
sciousness that our coffers yet evince no tokens of naked- 
ness — a nakedness, whose appearance makes the possessor start 
back in affright — a sight, which is the warning lightning of the 
falling thunderbolt — the first knock at our door by that hag 
whom men call " Poverty " 

But, that I might not experience the slightest interruption 
to the happiness, which heaven willed should be my portion 
for the two succeeding years, and, when but little more than a 
hundred sequins remained in my coffers, it chanced that, at a 
brilliant fete given at one of our beautiful villas in the vicinity 
of Florence, I was introduced to an English captain, whose 
name I cannot now recall, but whose handsome countenance 
will ever be present to my remembrance. 

Scarcely had the usual salutations passed between us, than 
the Englishman requested me to read a splendid passage from 
Shakspeare's tragedy of " Romeo and Juliet," translated into 
Italian — if I remember rightly — by that excellent and learned 
man, Leoni of Parma. 

Although I then knew nothing of Shakspeare, of his Juliet, 
or of his language, I had already sufficient confidence in myself 
to hazard any new attempt, I therefore immediately com- 
menced reading the proposed passage, persuaded that the 
favourite pupil of Morrocchesi must awaken interest in his 
hearers, even though his task had been to declaim from so 
insignificant a work as Bertoldo. 

The passage was magnificent ; and I, obedient to the precepts 
of my excellent master, having suffered my eye to precede the 
perusal of each verse in order that my mind might become pre- 
pared with the sense, felt during this reading so imbued with 
the spirit of the great poet, that, losing sight of all surround- 
ing circumstances — even of him from whom I had received the 
inspiring book — T became as it were, identified with the hero. 
I felt myself a i( Romeo " 

So vociferous was the applause of the group of hearers that 



1 ?4 MY CONFESSIONS* 

surrounded me, that every angle of that spacious villa rang 
with its echoes, while the Englishman, with his eyes fixed upon 
me, stood immoveable, applauding me by his silence alone — a 
silence, however, whose eloquence spoke to me in promise, 
and whose realization was worth to me the crash of a hundred 
voices, which, however flattering to my self-love, was ephe- 
meral as the notes of a Catalani, or a Billington, which have 
no sooner created a momentary delight, than they are lost in 
empty air. 

The Englishman invited me to breakfast with him the next 
morning ; and then told me that some friends of his, an En- 
glish family, then residing at <s Schneider's Hotel," wished to 
see me that very day, as they were desirous of commencing 
with me a course of Italian literature. We accordingly sought 
their hotel, and I was then introduced to this most charming 
family • They fixed an hour for my re -visiting them on the 
morrow, and begged me to specify to them the terms of my 
professional attendance. 

The Italian masters at Florence — even those of the lowest 
pretensions — had always demanded from the English, in 
consideration of their wealth, eighteen pence per hour 
as the recompence for their instructions. Hitherto I had 
looked upon this remuneration as sufficient ; but at this moment, 
imbued with an extra sense of my own importance, and con- 
scious that I was considered as the Professor the most in fa- 
shion and request, I took still farther advantage of the liberality 
of the English, and demanded half-a-crown for each lesson. I 
pause not to descant upon the justice or injustice of this my pro- 
ceeding ; estimating the English as a rich and generous people, 
I imagined not for an instant that I was wronging them. 
This is my only justification — and now blame me who will ! 

' 'Very well," was the reply of the mother of my future pu- 
pils ; and so far from manifesting her astonishment at the 
exorbitance of my demand, she requested that I would devote 
an hour, each day in the week, to the instruction of her two 
daughters. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 175 

The English, who are to be met with on the continent, gene- 
rally throw off that cold and chilling reserve, which so cha- 
racterizes their demeanour in their own island ; and thus they * 
communicate to each other all the useful information they have 
procured in their travels, towards the attainment of " com- 
fort," a word that admits of no translation in a foreign 
language, but which is as necessary to an Englishman's 
happiness, as the watch- word to the security of an encamped 
army. 

Only a few days had passed away when my pupils — satisfied 
with their master — introduced me to several of their acquaint- 
ances, and these latter again to others ; so that, before the 
expiration of a month, from the time I had given my first les- 
son in Schneiders Hotel, Sorelli was pronounced to be the first 
Professor of Italian in Florence. 

This reputation, whether merited or not, never procured me 
an enemy, nor awakened towards me any feeling of envy or per- 
secution ; in a city too where the wrathful Alighieri assures us 
that in his day, " the cup of envy o'erflowed from its excess. 5 ' 
On the contrary, such was the good feeling the other Professors 
evinced towards me, that when their own pupils were suffi- 
ciently advanced to commence reading Dante or Petrarch, they 
always assured them that there was but one teacher at Florence 
who was thoroughly versed in the knowledge of those two 
classics, and that he was by far more capable of continuing 
their studies than themselves. 



CHAPTER V. 



It was about this period that the celebrated German author, 
Francesco Grillparzer quitted Florence, bequeathing to his 
printer, Marenigh — also a German — the last offspring of his 



176 MY CONFESSIONS, 

muse — the tragedy of " Sappho." Marenigh was acquaint- 
ed with my father, and having heard from him that his son 
Guido, "the great traveller, who had actually resided at Zu- 
rich/ ' had returned to his native country, he requested to see 
me. 

I accordingly repaired to his house. The good German re- 
ceived me most kindly, and after having addressed me a few 
flattering words, he stated his object in desiring particularly 
to see me. This was that I should undertake the translation 
of Grillparzer's divine Tragedy, — as he termed it — into 
Italian, of which he was to be the publisher. 

Until now, one of the peculiarities in my character had been 
to regard authors as offsprings of the skies, who had but 
lighted on this nether world ; whilst I, in comparison, was in- 
deed but an humble son of earth. It was sufficient for me, 
either when at Florence or at Zurich, to understand that such 
a one — alas ! often younger than myself — had published a work, 
in order that I should regard that individual — whether his work 
were good or execrable — as holding a rank in my fancied class 
of supernatural beings. This singularity may perhaps afford a 
solution to the problem, why this Guido was never the object 
of envy or persecution in the city so constantly prolific in her 
production of literary sons. 

The confidence in my ability with which Marenigh had of- 
fered me the translation of Grillparzer's " Sappho," opened to 
mea new page in the volume of life. I seemed to trace there 
the assurance that my talents were not limited to the dwarfish 
estimate by which I had hitherto measured them, and that if 
there were giants in literature, I might, at all events, take my 
stand amongst men, as having already attained an unusual 
growth of intellect, and might perhaps ultimately rival the most 
gigantic amongst them. 

"Yes, I will undertake the work," I replied to Marenigh, 
fancying myself already three inches taller than I was but 
an hour ago ; and, with a cordial shake of the hand, we parted. 
As I stood alone without the door of my new friend, I felt as 



MY CONFESSIONS. 177 

though I were another being — it was the inebriation of self.' — 
During dinner, I recounted to the family my conversation with 
Marenigh. To those loved beings, with whom I was an 
object of so much affection, this intelligence seemed a harbinger 
not less beauteous in hope, than that offered by the rainbow^ 
... .no less a promise of joy, than that which we welcome 
with the first smile of spring ; and caresses and applause were 
unsparingly lavished upon me. 

It was the month of May ! As soon as cur beautiful Italian 
sun had risen, I sprang from my bed, and, furnished with 
paper and pencil, the tragedy of Grillparzer and the first vo- 
lume of Dante, I took my path towards the Casein o, I arrived 
there just as the sun was gilding the hills with his magnificent 
beams, arraying nature in one of her gayest smiles. On 
my right, flowed the gentle Arno ; and beyond it, towered in 
celestial beauty that hill called in pre-eminence " the Monte," 
to whose crowned temple the surrounding hills seem to tow 
in submissive adoration. On my left., stood woods of undying 
verdure, composed of lofty trees, upon whose branches fluttered 
myriads of warblers of the gayest plumage, and who, from 
January to December enliven the groves with one perpetual 
song. 

My first care was to endeavour to seek inspiration, in my 
new attempt, from the perusal of the feelings of the " Divine 
Florentine." I therefore opened Dante, and recited aloud the 
three first cantos of his " Divina Commedia." This afforded 
me the inspiration I sought for — at least I imagined it had. 
Opening, therefore, Grillparzer* s tragedy, I translated, on 
the impulse of the moment, in blank verse three scenes of the 
first act, Here I paused, for I had always a superstitious 
reverence for the number three. 

Surprised at this feat— for I had never supposed myself 
capable of accomplishing such an effort — I re-entered the 
town, and passing the Square of Santa Triniia, it occurred 
to me that I would call on my friend Vittorio Silerio, 
who resided there, and who, in those days, occupied a dis- 

I 3 



!7S MY CONFESSIONS, 

tinguished rank among the literati of Florence. Vittorio hag 
unluckily since married a woman without fortune, and much 
his junior in age : and now in him can no longer be traced — I 
fear — the noble spirit of the past. The reason is obvious . 
Poetry and poverty may journey on amicably hand in hand 
together, so long as poverty is the single spur to the poet's 
Pegasus ; but when she also clings to the dear objects of the 
poor poet's mortal love, and he is compelled to woo the inspira- 
tion of his muse to satisfy the cravings of worldly necessity, 
poverty ceases to be the noble spur to her flight, but becomes 
the tormenting goad — the <e Peretta"* — which the Italian, ill- 
taught by the barbarians of old, attaches to his race-horse, to urge 
him to reach the appointed goal. Poverty, in the former case F 

* The Peretta, is a piece of tin, cut in the form of a pear. To the 
centre is attached a fine cord, and from the end of the cord depends a 
ball cohered with small iron spikes, not any of which, are however suffi- 
ciently long to penetrate the skin of the race-horse for which they are 
destined. The number of the Peretta should not exceed eight. The 
noble courser is conducted to the starting post (la Scappata) from 
whence, without saddle or rider, he is to run in company with other 
racers two miles, on a level road covered with the softest and finest sand* 
— As the race-horses approach '* la Scappata," the grooms who conduct 
them withdraw the ball from the little hook which had confined it to 
the centre of the Peretta. The sagacious animal, who would have run 
equally well without this incentive, feeling himself pricked, becomes 
irritated, and in proportion as this irritation increases, so does he feel 
more acutely the inconvenience of- the disengaged ball, which goads 
him more or less according as he moves with increased or dimi- 
nished violence. Arrived at La Scappata, he no longer suffers him- 
self to be restrained, but drags the bold groom, who now having en- 
tirely freed the Perettas, holds by a kind of curb ; uutil at the 
sound of a given signal, he withdraws the bridle from the mouth of the 
animal with the velocity cf lightning. Scarcely does the racer feel 
himself at liberty, than maddened by the goad, he flies impetuously 
onward : while the greater his speed, the more violently does the 
Peretta strike upon his sides, until, having gained the winning post, he 
stops to take breath, stoops once more to receive the rein of his tor- 
mentor, and becomes again tame and obedient. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 179 

enables the poet to despise the riches he had not succeeded in 
attaining. He feels himself superior to fortune. Poverty per- 
suades him that the fortunate man was never the distinguished 
poet ; it makes him conscious that by sorrow alone is true poetry 
engendered : that when a man writes of the infernal regions 
or of a Paradise Lost, his soul may— like that of Milton or 
Dante — rise from the prostration of earth to the stars ; but 
when he attempts to describe the " beatitude of the blessed/' 
or a " Paradise Regained/' man finds again his own level, as 
those great authors have done before us. 

To the house, then, of my friend Vittorio Silerio I carried, 
ere the ink was dry, the first verses, that I had ever 
thought of submitting to the judgment of a capricious public. 

" Excellent 1 Go on with your task," said Silerio, " and dG 
not, as you always have hitherto done, turn aside from your 
labor like the butterfly from the flowers ; but be constant as 
the bee, which, in the course of a few short minutes, extracts 
from them all the sweets which had been accumulating during so 
many days of sunshine ere they had attained maturity, and 
gathers sufficient honey to last for weeks, months, and even 
years/' 

This short encouragement, from a mind so sincere as his, 
coupled as it was with a reproof I well merited, impressed me 
so forcibly, that to these few words of Silerio, I am mainly in- 
debted for the stimulus which urged me subsequently to enter 
upon a literary career, in which, unlike that of love, even the 
most humble aspirant is sure to merit and obtain some applause. 

One word of encouragement from a man of sense, is worth 
a thousand frivolous praises proceeding from the mouth of 
a shallow and insincere flatterer. 

I returned home. Cleofe, as may be supposed, was the first 
to read this first literary essay of her brother. " Oh ! Guido ! 
Guido I" was all she was able to utter : but she raised 
her hands to Heaven, either in gratitude for what I had 
done, or to implore in my behalf strength for a greater 
accomplishment. 



180 MY CONFESSIONS, 

I withdrew into my own little study, which then appeared to 
me a paradise on earth.- — It was situated on the banks of the 
Amo, and from the windows which opened upon a small 
terrace, I could descend at pleasure to the water's side, which, 
if net always clear and abundant, ever presented to my mind 
the image of a classic stream. Here I recommenced my task. 

The sound of the most heavenly music from Cleofe's piano- 
forte, acted as inspiration to me. My progress in the ar- 
duous task I had undertaken was greatly facilitated by the 
delicious and inspiring influence of music. My sister, whose 
skill in playing the pianoforte was the admiration of all her 
friends, now lent me this seasonable aid with affectionate zeal. 
When mid- day arrived, she re-entered my study, bearing 
in her hand a little table, upon which stood a glass of Rhenish 
wine and some toasted bread, 

" Rhenish wine ! and why not Chianti or Montepulciano ?" 
will probably be enquired of me. — " Could it be that Guido 
Sorelli, at Florence, at mid- day in the month of May, actually 
made it his habit to take potations of Rhenish wine — so much 
more powerful than his own Tuscan wines i" 

I must then obseiwe that, before I quitted Italy, I had always 
disliked wine ; but in Switzerland I gradually began, if not to 
like it, at least to feel it necessary in a climate where constant 
smoking, accompanied with moderate indulgence in the exqui- 
sitely flavored Rhenish wines, formed the only recreation of the 
Zurich gentlemen, at the close of a day of sedentary occu- 
pation. 

After I had resided some time at Zurich, I began insensibly 
to participate in their habit of taking wine, which indeed I was 
at first induced to resort to, in order to counteract in some 
measure the effect of the fumes of tobacco, which often 
formed a cloud so dense, that it was difficult to recognise an 
object at an arm's length, so that our shadowy assembly fre- 
quently resembled a conversazione of spectres. 

I, however, abstained from smoking, as I feared that was a 
custom which, if once contracted, would be more difficult to 



MY CONFESSIONS. 181 

break myself of when necessary, than the very small portion *> 
of wine I was in the habit of taking. Ultimately, from 
an increasing relish for its flavour, I came to consider the 
Rhenish wine as a nectar, which, without intoxicating, ex- 
hilirated the spirits, and attuned my heart to a gayer strain, 
when prone to sadness or melancholy, as too frequently happens 
w r hen under poetical inspiration. 

There was still another incentive to my availing myself 
of its inspiration in that first eventful moment, when the 
youth was about to lay the foundation of that literary reputation, 
which he fondly hoped the man was in maturity to confirm ; it 
was the assurance I htfd obtained from Fuseli and others at 
Zurich, that Schiller — the Shakspeare of the Germans — never 
commenced his tragedies, without having first availed himself 
of the assistance of that generous wine ; he drank so 
copiously of it, that on one occasion, while writing his " Don 
Carlos" in an apartment, which opened on a low terrace, 
he remained quite unconscious of an uproarious tumult, caused 
by a crowd of washerwomen beneath his window 7 — so powerful 
w r as his poetical abstraction. 

I, to whom the conscious perception of surrounding objects, 
however, was not at all displeasing during those bright days 
of my life, contented myself with my half glass for each 
bottle that I heard Schiller used to take during his moments 
of poetizing. 

At the end of three months, I had concluded my first 
literary undertaking. 



CHAPTER YI. 



It is doubtless a most culpable, if not indeed an unchris- 
tian-like act, to seek inspiration at the fountain of Bacchus. 
The poetic fire which is there imbibed, and the images which 



182 MY CONFESSIONS. 

emanate from its spring, belong not properly to the votary 
who seeks its aid. It is like the Asphaltum lamp nourished 
in the regions of darkness, which seen there, appear to rival 
the splendour of the stars ; but never can the glare of Erebus 
compare with the light of heaven. "This wisdom descendeth 
not from above, but is earthly, sensual, devilish/ 9 

Having at length completed my translation of Grillparzer's 
beautiful tragedy, I, one evening, read it to our assembled 
family. 

Abundant were the tears it awakened, and vociferous was 
the applause. Still, I was unwilling to rely wholly on the 
judgment of hearers naturally biassed in my favour : and, 
therefore, two evenings after, I submitted it to an audience 
of about fifty of my friends and acquaintances. 

On this occasion the tears were less profuse, but the ap- 
plause was even more frequent and louder. 

Gathering confidence from the success of my second reading, 
I carried my Sappho to the Secretary of the Accademia delta 
Crusca, the celebrated Abate Zannoni, my particular friend. 

He promised to read it attentively, and to give me his 
opinion in three days. 

At the expiration of that time, I again presented myself 
at his house. 

" Well, Signore Abate, what is your opinion of my work ?" 
I eagerly asked, before we had exchanged the morning saluta- 
tion. 

" It is a beautiful tragedy !" replied Zannoni, " and 
the translation is excellent. What do you propose doing with 
it, Signor Guido ?" 

" I intend to publish it immediately." 

" But not in your own name I" 

" Why not ?" 

" For this reason, my dear Signor Guido : it generally 
happens that the public look upon a work proceeding from 
a name as yet unknown in literature, as the trifling of a 
novice — one whose vanity, rather than the fulness of his 



MY CONFESSIONS. 183 

knowledge, urges him to turn author. A first essay should 
come out anonymously. It is not the name of the writer, 
which enhances the value of a first publication ; but, on the 
contrary, it is the book — if it be good — which reflects 
popularity on the author. Men, my dear Signore, who 
are for the most part weak, attach much importance to a 
name. Generally speaking, their first desire, upon opening 
a work, is to discover its author — even before they read the 
title — as we would immediately read the signature of a letter, 
before we proceed to examine its contents. When an au- 
thor publishes for the first time, in his own name, the critics — 
whose principal talent ordinarily lies in censure — -unable to 
discover who he may be, from his name being strange to 
them, examine his work with the impatient scrutiny, with 
which we run over the epistle of an unknown correspondent. 
' Who is this unknown fellow ?' we say immediately, ' who 
presumes to address me, burthening me with the expense 
of postage and threatening me with so much loss of time 
in the perusal of his letter/ To a man thus prejudiced 
from ill-humour when he commences his task, even gold 
would be divested of its lustre ; whereas, on the other hand, 
the anonymous work, generally, receives the unbiassed judg- 
ment both of the critics and of the public, who if they 
happen to find it really valuable, and uncertain upon whom 
of the established authors to. bestow these fresh laurels, 
dare not dip their pens in the gall of criticism." 

However just these sentiments were on the part of the 
Abate Zannoni, they made no more impression upon my 
mind than would the breath of the soft zephyrs upon the 
snowy heights of Mont Blanc. 

"And why/' I reasoned with myself, "why should I have 
laboured to require the reputation of an author, if my name is 
to be thus buried in oblivion ? why am I to suffer a work, 
which has already gained for me so much approbation and 
applause, to be possibly ascribed to another, who will thereby 
usurp my laurels ?" 



184 MY CONFESSIONS, 

I therefore made no reply to Zannoni, but thanking him 
warmly for having read my work, assured him of the hap- 
piness I experienced in having gained the applause of such a 
critic as himself; and asked him what value he would recom- 
mend me to set upon it ? 

" Signor Guido," replied Zannoni, " so beautiful a trans- 
lation as your Sappho is of considerable value ; and whatever 
sum you are likely to demand cannot exceed its merits ; but, 
should your contract be made with a Jew, for many of the 
publishers are Jewish in their dealings, I should advise ycu 
not to require less than between thirty and fifty sequins." 

I then took my leave of Zannoni, more than ever satisfied 
with myself and my splendid talents. 

" Here is the manuscript, Maremgh," said I, on calling 
upon him the next morning. 

" Well, and what is your own opinion of it, Signor 
Guido ?" 

" I think the tragedy splendid ;" I replied, " but it is not 
for me to decide upon the merits of the translation." 

" Will you object to leave it with me eight or ten days, 
that I may submit it to some of my literary friends V enquired 
the publisher. 

" Not at all," I replied. 

AX the expiration of a fortnight, I again presented myself 
before Marenigh. 

" Ferroni, the mathematician, has read your work, Signor 
Guido," were his first words upon my entrance ; " he 
has pronounced it to be, not only a fine specimen of your 
acquaintance with the original language, but an undeniable 
proof of your being a good poet yourself. I assure you he 
has bestowed upon it the greatest eulogium. And now then 
let us complete our mutual arrangements. Tell me what sum 
you require for it ?" 

" Name your own value." 

" No, no, it is for the author to demand his price, not for 
the bookseller to offer one." 



MY CONFESSIONS. 185 

M Thirty sequins, then." 

"Thirty sequins! — Hold, hold, Signor Guido ; take back 
your manuscript, and publish it on your own account," ex- 
claimed Marenigh in affright. 

I who, notwithstanding my conviction of the splendor of my 
performance, could scarcely forbear smiling at the exorbitance 
of my own demand for a first work, and who was otherwise 
resolved not to acquire fame by the sacrifice of a single penny 
of my own, replied to Marenigh's sardonic smile with one 
much more natural and amiable, refusing, however, to accept 
the proffered manuscript, which Marenigh still held out to 
me with a long extended arm. 

*" No, no," said I, calmly ; " keep the manuscript, and 
offer me what you like for it." 

" I offer you ! what offer can I think of making you after 
having heard your alarming demand ?" said Marenigh, with a 
face so inflexible, that I began to tremble for my Italian Sappho 
being published at all, and thus as I still resolved not to 
purchase fame with my own gold, I should have lost three 
months of my life ; have been applauded to no purpose ; and the 
world would not, as I had fondly hoped, hear the name of 
Guido Sorelli proclaimed as an author. 

<c Offer me what you will;" I repeated, " and do not 
be alarmed at my valuation. I am sure we shall agree in five 
minutes." 

" My dear Signor Guido," returned Marenigh, " I should 
feel extreme pleasure in publishing your tragedy on your own 
account, in the best style, and, from the estimation in which 
I hold it, on the lowest possible terms ; but since you are 
resolved that I should purchase the manuscript, I will make 
you the only offer I can afford, but which, I warn you before- 
hand, will be irrevocable." 

" Name it then," said I, eagerly. 

" Nine golden sequins, and twenty- five per cent upon each 
subscription you may yourself procure for the work." 



i 86 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" Nine sequins, and twenty-five per cent ?" 

" Yes, Signore." 

" Be it so, then ! The affair is concluded ; and now, where 
are my sequins ? 5 '' 

" Here they are in pieces of ! San Giovanni/ just issued 
from the mint ;" exclaimed the bookseller, counting the glitter- 
ing coin into my hand. 

" Brilliant, indeed!" said I, " and now, Signor Marenigh, 
I wish you a good morning." 

T quitted the printing office, and bent my steps towards the 
Ponte Vecchio. My heart was so light, from the admirable 
contract which I fancied I had concluded ; I felt so pleased, so 
contented with myself — on the e T .~e of beholding" my name 
in print, and that obtained not by any sacrifice of my own, 
but accompanied by a gift of some bright sequins — that scarcely 
did my steps seem to touch the earth. 

" Well, Guido/' what arrangement have you made with 
Marenigh ?" asked her, as I entered his counting-house, 

" is he not an excellent man? Ke has, of course, given you 
the fifty sequins/' 

" Fifty ! He has given me but nine r> 

" Nine!" 

" Yes, nine only!" I replied, opening my hand and dis- 
playing the nine sequins glittering like = : stars. 

" And so, you have sacrificed your beautiful translation for 
that paltry sum, Guido." said my father, mournfully. 

" And why not?" I exclaimed. " Would it not have 
been worse, if Marenigh had refused to purchase my work, 
and I had been compelled to pay him for introducing my 
name to the public ?" 

" Well, as you will, Guido ! If you are satisfied, we 
shall be equally so ! 5 ' said the kind old man, with his placid 
smile. 

We then discussed the most agreeable method of disposing 
of this first golden reward of my labours. 

Although no prodigal, I had never been, nor shall I ever 



MY CONFESSIONS. 187 

be remarkable for much prudence in the disposal of money. 
Distrusting my own discretion, I therefore begged my father 
would receive the sequins in return for a gold ring which he 
was to procure for me, and which I intended to wear in 
future on my finger in remembrance of my first successful 
literary performance. 

So splendid was the ring my father had ordered for me, 
that I am sure twenty sequins would not have repaid the 
artisan for its exquisite workmanship. 

The artist, whom my father had employed, was one of the 
most skilful on the Ponte Vecchio. He did not know me 
personally, but only by name : he had called upon me to 
ascertain the style in which I desired the ring should be made. 
I left that to his judgment; but required him to introduce, 
on it, if it were possible, the arms of Florence. 

At the end of a fortnight he brought me my ring. It re- 
presented on one side the lily, and on the other the lion of 
Florence. 

I was so astonished at the beauty of the workmanship, that 
half afraid to ask him its value, I exclaimed: " What sum 
can ever remunerate you for so superb a work of art ?" 

" Your good- will to me, Signor Guido," was the reply 3 
and this generous creature could never be induced to accept 
payment of any kind for his laborious and skilful work. This 
worthy man presented a faithful portraiture of the Florentine 
character. Notwithstanding his skill, he was extremely poor ; 
though occupied from seven in the morning until eight in 
the evening, he could scarcely earn his paltry seven paoli 
in the day. Excepting his professional knowledge, he was 
an ignorant and illiterate man, yet such was the veneration 
in which he held, not the individual himself, but what he 
considered to be that individual's talent 9 that, in spite of 
every attempt at dissuasion, he insisted upon offering as his 
homage, the result of fifteen days of gratuitous labour. 

When Napoleon's sister, Eliza, Grand Duchess of Florence, 
had commanded the removal of a beautiful statue of Michael 



183 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Angelo's from the Loggia de Lanzi, to be transferred to the 
Tuileries, the then emporium for stolen works of art, the 
Florentines, who had patiently submitted their necks to 
the yoke of the French invaders, they who had unmur- 
muringly seen their sons torn from their arms, to be pressed 
into the service of a nation of spoliators, at this decree, these 
same Florentines rose en masse ; and had it not been that 
a counter order was issued almost immediately from the Pitti- 
Palace, to replace the divine statue in its original occupation, 
the French garrison at Florence, Fochet, the then prefet, 
Eliza, the Grand Duchess, and every other French resident 
would infallibly have fallen a sacrifice to the just resentment 
of the exasperated Florentines. 

Many of my countrymen who were soon informed of my 
contract with Marenigh, now flocked to me from all quarters 
with their subscriptions, so that, at the conclusion of the 
week, I presented Marenigh with a list containing seven 
hundred names, for which I w T as to receive twenty-five 
per cent on the price of each copy according to our con- 
tract. 

The conduct of the Zurickers was still more generous : 
I had written to inform them of the terms upon which I had 
disposed of my manuscript. In reply, I received a letter 
of congratulation, and a cheque to the value of twenty-five louis, 
a similar number of my friends there having united thus to 
serve me, whilst at the same time they intimated their wish 
that I should not send them in return more than twenty -jive 
copies. 

I related this act of generosity to the family residing 
at Schneider's, w T ho I afterwards discovered, by the bye, 
to be Irish, not English people. So pleased did they appear 
at the relation, that I beheld tears glistening in the eyes of 
the mother and her daughters. The Irish have, indeed, kind 
hearts. 

I dedicated my translation of Sappho to its author, although 
I was not personally acquainted with him. I forwarded a copy 



MY CONFESSIONS. 189 

of it to Vienna, where lie resided, and at the expiration of a 
month, received from him a most kind and flattering letter. 

But it is time that I should have done with this poor 
Sappho. I will merely add, that two years after its publi- 
cation, Lord Byron happening to arrive at Florence, and 
having heard much of Grillparzer, he procured my version of 
the tragedy, as he was unacquainted with the German lan- 
guage. He soon after wrote to his friend Moore* in England, 
speaking favourably of the translation, and presented it to 
Teresa, one of his Florentine beauties, recommending it to 
her perusal. 



CHAPTER VII. 



To a reflecting mind, the feeling of exultation awakened 
within us, by the exalted opinion we conceive of ourselves, 
or by that others pronounce of us, is but ephemeral. The flame 
may spring brightly into existence ; but, in proportion to its 
primary ardor, so is it short-lived in duration. But a few 
brief moments, and the mental vision, which had rested upon 
the bewildering regions of poetry, is recalled to its native earth ; 
— the magic power which had first raised, and there sustained 
us, amid those ethereal realms, from whence we had looked 
down in superiority upon all beneath us, suddenly withdraws 
its supporting hand, and the well-regulated mind returns to 
the conciousness of its humanity, and that that humanity is 
but dust. 

Scarcely a month had elapsed since the completion of my 
translation, and I had already forgotten Grillparzer and 
Sappho altogether. The applause I had obtained from it now 

* See Moore's Life of Lord Byron. 



190 MY CONFESSIONS. 

dwelt upon my remembrance, only as the expiring note of 
a pleasing echo, and I was myself once more — nothing. 

This inertness of mind and spirits lasted nearly two months, 
at the expiration of which, an inexplicable feeling from within 
began to agitate me like the spark, which having lain for 
some time smouldering beneath a heap of ashes, prepares 
to burst forth in a renewed flame — bright and beautiful — or, 
perchance, destructive and deadly in its effects. 

" Be mindful how you stop short in a race you have your- 
self chosen. Alas, if you do ! It had been better for you 
never to have attempted to distinguish yourself. Do you not 
think Goethe's Tasso a study worthy of you ?" 

These were a few kind words that, at this period I received 
from a friend. It will be easily imagined from what country 
and from whom. Their import aroused me from my apathy. 
The desire of fame once more took possession of my heart, and 
recalled all its slumbering energies. 

He who commences his career, not too sanguine of success, 
as I fancy had been my case with the translation of Sappho, 
when he receives opinions, and judges of himself with as 
much humility as can be expected from a class of men 
(authors,) who are proverbially conceited, he will find that 
his powers, instead of lessening, augment in proportion to 
his course, and that, at each step, he has acquired additional 
strength — " Vires acquirit eundo." 



CHAPTER VIII. 



" Goethe's Tasso 9 * was my second translation; and this, 
like my preceding work, owed much to the heavenly sounds 
awakened by my dear Cleofe on her sweet instrument, in 
the adjoining apartment, the delicious effect of which, was 
heightened by the perfume of the fragrant flowers, with which 



MY CONFESSIONS. 191 

she was ever mindful to adorn my little study. " Something 
must surely be ascribed to the inspiration of the Rhenish 
wine I" I fancy I hear the reader say. 

No ! the Rhenish wine had this time no share in my 
inspiration. 

" Bravo, Guido ! your reformation, then, follows quickly 
on the footsteps of your errors." 

Be not so hasty in thy applause, my good friend; my 
apparent self-denial sprang from a yet more serious evil. 

" Evil ! and wherefore ?" 

Because this abstinence was not the result of self-denial. 
Neither did it proceed from a stoical determination to reject 
the artificial aid of excitement. No ; a species of intoxica- 
tion was still required. I only changed its medium. Instead 
of invoking the exhilarating glow produced by the Rhenish 
grape, I drank deep draughts from the fountain of self-love, 
and so powerful was the stimulus, that I considered myself 
equal to any undertaking, and complacently considered my 
crude talents beyond the necessity of further cultivation. 
This was a change much to be lamented. That intoxication, 
which we experience at the orgies of Bacchus, has its term ; 
it yields to the soothing effects of the poppy of Morpheus; 
but, on the contrary, that which results from pride and vain- 
glory, is a waking, never-dying inebriation, and the deeper 
the draught the more insatiate is the thirst, and the more 
wilfully unquenchable. 

The facility I had acquired in writing blank verse enabled 
me to complete my second work in a week. 

I submitted it to my kind friend, Padre Mauro Bernardini, 
Professor of Eloquence at the Scolopi, who pronounced it 
to be excellent. 

In a very few days, I obtained a great number of sub- 
scribers, having determined to publish it on my own account. 

I dedicated it to my sweet sister Cleofe ; and found, that 
after defraying the expenses of publication, I had gained fifty 
sequins. 



192 MY CONFESSIONS, 

iVt this period of my existence, every hour of my time 
was equally distributed between pleasure and useful occu- 
pation. My happiness continued uninterrupted ; for it pleased 
heaven that this portion of my journey through life should 
be calm, unalloyed, and bestrewn with flowers ; that on every 
side, should I behold realized an imaginary golden harvest un- 
mixed with a single tare. There were still several English at 
Florence to whom I gave instruction in Italian, all of whom 
were, fortunately for me, apt and diligent pupils. The hours 
which were not devoted to my profession, I employed in 
the study of elocution, under the guidance of the celebrated 
Morrocchesi, Professor at the Lyceum at Florence. 

It was now the year 1819, that in which Morrocchesi's 
pupils were to contend for the triennial distribution of prizes 
given by government. 

The highest prize was a gold medal, valued at about 
a hundred sequins. On the one side was struck a like- 
ness of " Michael Angelo, with these words around it, 
" Michel piu che mortaie, angel divino !" On the other 
appeared three crowns with this motto, " Levan di terra 
al Ciel nostro intelletto." 

This splendid gift was accorded to him alone of the whole 
Lyceum, who surpassed the others in his powers of de- 
clamation, or in possessing a genius for painting. 

It may be readily imagined that Signor Guido would 
be a candidate in this trial of skill. 

For the scene of exhibition, the government of Florence 
selected the Teatro Goldoni. It issued two thousand free 
tickets to the most respectable inhabitants. Censors were 
nominated, and the Senator Alessandri — a most excellent 
and erudite man — was appointed president. 

Oreste, by Alfieri, was the tragedy selected on this oc- 
casion. 

At length the hour of trial arrived. When the beau- 
tiful overture was nearly concluded, I enquired of Galleni, 
the most formidable of my antagonists, and who was to 



MY CONFESSIONS. 193 

personate the character of Orestes, by which column he was 
to appear. 

During every rehearsal that had taken place, Galleni had 
gone through his part with the greatest apathy, probably 
with the design of overwhelming me with the unexpected 
fire and skill, which he reserved for the grand evening of 
trial. 

" I know not :" was his laconic reply to my question. 

There was no time for a rejoinder — the curtain was raised. 
My courage was however, un quenched. I felt that Guido 
was himself ; so that far from being daunted by this incivility, 
it rather acted upon me as a stimulus to exertion. 

Behold Galleni on Goldoni's boards, Orestes himself, in 
the mimic palace of Atrides. Conceive him in the presence 
of two thousand spectators mute w^ith attention — and thus 
commencing : 

" Pylades, yes ' behold my palace. An me ! what joy ! Beloved 
Pylades, embrace thy friend 1 '* 

with so exquisite a voice, that it seemed to me, never had 
such a tone reached my ear before. In this particular, which 
was, indeed, nature's gift, Galleni greatly surpassed me ; but 
as an actor, I excelled him both in skill and energy. 

In proportion as I beheld Galleni animated with the fire 
and spirit of his character, so did my enaction of Pylades 
become calm and grave ; presenting a contrast, which ob- 
tained for me the first general burst of applause. 

Hitherto every voice was for me — for Guido — even to 
vociferation. 

We had commenced the fourth act, and reached the scene 
of the confession of Orestes to Egisthus, when Pylades, 
in his delirium to save his friend, endeavours to make 
the tyrant believe that he is Orestes. I, at that period, 
became so unconscious of where I actually was, or rather 
I so identified myself with Pylades himself, that, on the 

K 



194 MY CONFESSIONS, 

one hand, trembling with the violence of my friendship 
for Orestes, whom I proposed to save ; and on the other 
with hatred for Egisthus whom we had come to destroy ; I 
stood, unconsciously, in the attitude which the struggle of feel- 
ing between Orestes and Egisthus had called forth, speechless 
for the space of a minute, in short, to all appearance like an 
actor who had forgotten his part. 

Morrocchesi trembled for me behind the scenes, and vainly 
prompted aloud the words I ought to have uttered. In vain 
did a thousand friends, from the boxes and pit, prompt me 3 in 
their anxiety to recall me to myself. No ! It seemed or- 
dained that poor Guido should be no longer Guido. I had 
ceased to -be there, though present ; stricken, as it were, by 
the magic wand of some fell enchanter, I was no longer under 
my own dominion. In that fearful moment, the leaves of the 
laurel chaplet which had so nearly encircled my brow, fell one 
by one withering at my feet, while I remained unable to break 
the spell of that waking dream, and to recover my speech. 
But I did at length revive. My power of utterance returned. 
A lightning flash glanced athwart my mind. By its flitting 
glare I beheld — more irritated than appalled — my leafless crown 
prostrate before me, and was then for the first time aware that 
I had inopportunely forgot Guido in Py lades. 

I resumed my personation with an energy, of which I scarcely 
thought myself capable, and which was succeeded by a burst of 
applause, which continued to reward my efforts until the con- 
clusion of the tragedy. 

II Cavalier di Spirit o, in versi Martellini, was the next 
trial, on the succeeding evening. 

Galleni took the part of the Cavaliere, and recited splen- 
didly. Mine was that of the Captain, and I acquitted myself 
with as much ability, as could be expected to be displayed, in a 
secondary character, 

Le Ciane — a comedy, and never before acted, by the Abate, 
Zannoni, secretary to the Accademia della Crusca- — was the third 
and last trial. Galleni had no part assigned to him in this ; 



MY CONFESSIONS. lQft 

and I personated one of our old Florentine women. Vittorio 
Pecchioli, a Florentine litterato and a dear friend of mine, repre- 
sented another old woman. Had Vittorio and myself not been 
known to be the actors, no one would have doubted that we 
were two of the vilest women in Florence, the very dregs of 
Camaldoli. 

Although the author was perfectly satisfied, at the rehearsal, 
with our personation of the characters, he much feared the 
success of his comedy ; from a conviction that a vein of mirth 
is much sooner exhausted on the part of the audience, than that 
of serious sympathy. But when the first act, which consisted 
of only one long scene between Pecchioli and myself, was con- 
cluded amidst a burst of laughter and applause, the success its 
merits deserved was fully assured. 

Adriana Morrocchesi, the Professor's niece, who personated 
admirably the character of Electra, in Orestes ; that of the 
Lady, in the Cavalier di Spirito ; and the Cobbler's daughter, 
in Le Ciane, was pronounced the victor amongst the actresses ; 
Galleni amongst the actors ; while Signor Guido was obliged to 
content himself with his reputation of first accessit — second 
in the race — which, in his then state of mind, was equivalent 
to being utterly beaten and surpassed. 



CHAPTER IX. 



Whether the decision of the judges, in this matter, was just 
or not, is now but of little importance. I will not even pause 
to ask myself the question ; for neither then, nor at this period, 
could the result be important to me. Suffice it to say, Silvio, 
that their sentence no more disturbed the serenity of my mind 
than the minutest rain could ruffle the ocean's surface, when 
not even the sportive breath of the zephyr is playing upon it. 

It were almost impossible to describe the extent of the good 

k 2 



196 MY CONFESSIONS. 

will the Florentines evinced towards me. Whenever I ap- 
peared at the Bottegone, or at any other cafe, the eyes of those 
who knew me only by sight, beamed upon me in kindness ; 
while their ready smiles seemed to bid me welcome, and ac- 
knowledge the pleasure they would feel in becoming better ac- 
quainted with Guido Sorelli. 

How sweet it is to feel oneself beloved ! How does it coun- 
terbalance the many wrongs, that Fortune is so apt to heap 
upon us ! Not to have felt happy amid such sympathetic 
beings, would surely have argued a soul of Gothic dullness. 

Happy, did I say ? — Alas ! what art thou, happiness ? A 
beauteous vision — a dream ? Oh, wherefore should a stern rea- 
litv dispel so lovely an illusion to cause us, when awakened, 



" For ever to deplore 
Its loss, and other pleasures all abjure !" 



Or, if thy form be tangible, why dost thou so soon wing thy 
flight from him, who once had felt thee nestling in his bosom, 
dispensing thy gentle influence through his heart ? Alas ! 
that hour was at hand, in which the arms that had, or fancied 
thev had, encircled the beautiful idol, were to return unfilled 
upon my breast ; and I was once again to become sensible of 
the poverty of myself, of that self, from which we look for so 
much, and receive so little ! 

A correspondence which I had maintained with an English 
gentleman, who had been a pupil of mine at Florence for six 
months, and with whom I had been in habits of the strictest 
intimacy, produced, at this period, a quick succession of letters 
from England ; and, at length I received one by the hands of 
an Italian, who had served my English friend in the capacity 
of courier from Florence to Dover, and afterwards as valet 
de chambre. 

This letter was accompanied by a remittance amounting — if I 
well remember — to five louis. It was to reimburse me, so 



MY CONFESSIONS, 197 

wrote mv friend, for the expense I had incurred in the postage 
of his letters, an expense which would have indeed been re- 
paid by two thirds of that sum. Its contents differed little in 
tenor from those I had lately received. They were all to the 
effect, "that Guido Soreili ought not, in the very spring-time 
of his existence, to remain buried in obscurity at Florence, 
where he could do little more than vegetate ; that at Florence, 
the plant would never attain a vigorous growth, or should it 
reach maturity, the fruit would be tasteless or sour ; that 
England was the soil, in which the natural gifts of the Floren- 
tine would in two years not only become developed, but per- 
fected." The letter farther promised that the house of him, who 
thus offered his counsel, was open to receive Soreili ; that there 
he would find an asylum, until his own circumstances should 
enable him to dispense with it ; that ultimate success, indeed, 
depended upon chance, but that, should Fortune prove so con- 
trary as to withhold her countenance during the long trial Gf 
two years, still Guido could not but benefit by his experiment ; 
as it would not be an unimportant acquisition to add, to those 
with which he was already gifted, a proficiency in the English 
language, obtained in the country itself; whilst he would at the 
same time form an acquaintance with that circle of society in 
England, which Voltaire likens to the purified particles of their 
native and salutary beverage — ale. Being asked one day his 
opinion of the English, Voltaire thus replied — "They are an 
exact epitome of their own beer. The nobility are the froth ; 
the middle classes — which form the strength of the nation — are 
the body of the beer ; and the lees — the worst of all dregs — 
are their brutal plebeians." 

To the first part of the French cynic's assertion, I cannot 
assent ; for the English nobility consists principally of men 
of sound sense, superior education, many of whom are dis- 
tinguished for eminent talents. During the interesting political 
discussions, which have of late years agitated England ; parti- 
cularly those which related to the great measures of Catholic 
Emancipation and Parliamentary Reform ; who that has fre- 



19$ MY CONFESSIONS. 

quented the English House of Peers will not bear me out in 
my opinion ? 

With regard to the truth of his other two assertions, I will 
not cavil with the atheist, the tendency of whose writings con- 
tributed so much to promote the atrocious French Revolution. 

From a nervous weakness, from a want of sufficient confi- 
dence in myself, or from an undue proportion of that very 
necessary virtue called humility, I had never yet taken a step 
of importance without first consulting the opinion of my most 
intimate friends. 

Upon the receipt of this letter, therefore, considering it a 
point of duty not to consult Cleofe or my father alone, I in- 
vited a party of my chosen friends to a glass of Rhenish wine 
the next evening. 

Cleofe had already disposed the apartment, which was to 
receive her brother Guido's friends, with her usual taste and 
elegance. In the centre of the room was a circular table, 
covered with a handsome green cloth — the colour of hope in 
Italy — around which seats were arranged ; whilst the lights dis- 
posed in various elegant and symmetrical designs, had rendered 
it a tribunal not unworthy the assemblage of the <f Forty." 

My friends, who were ignorant of my motive in assembling 
them, arrived punctually at the proposed hour. 

Having welcomed them, and seated my father in one of the 
two principal chairs placed opposite to each other, I begged 
of Cleofe to improvise for ten minutes on her piano. 

Ever ready to comply with my minutest wishes, my sweet 
sister, who had prepared every thing for the occasion ; though 
still unconscious of the motive of my thus collecting my 
friends ; and too delicate to seek to unravel that which I chose 
to consider a mysteiy, placed herself at the instrument ; and by 
the divine melody she improvised, which breathed a spirit at once 
pensive and mysterious, she filled my soul with a corresponding 
sadness, more sweet, however, than the most exuberant joy. 

When these heavenly sounds had ceased, I took her hand, 
and conducted her to the other distinguished seat opposite my 



MY CONFESSIONS. 199 

father. Cleofe paused, and looked at me ; but she seemed to 
read my wishes in my countenance, for, without uttering a 
word, she immediately accepted the distinguished post with 
the dignity with which the accomplished Lord Stair complied 
with a sovereign's condescending request. * 

I placed myself on the left of Cleofe, and thus commenced 
my address : 

" My dear father, Cleofe, and my friends S — I have assembled 
you in order to bespeak your counsel upon a subject of the 
deepest moment to myself. You are all acquainted with the re- 
putation I enjoy at Florence — how I am beloved, the happiness 
I experience, the prosperity I have attained. I am now urged 
to quit this, our charming Florence ; to leave my relations, my 
friends and the exercise of my profession, for a residence in 
England, where I am assured that I shall acquire an accession 
of literary reputation. These are the encouraging words of 
my English friend, accompanying his invitation. Let me en- 
treat you to consider attentively all the circumstances of the 
case, for unto you I leave the decision of this important question. 

* Louis XV, who, I believe, held himself to be the most polished man 
in Europe, having heard of the reputation of Lord Stair for great refine- 
ment of manners, was so piqued at the bare probability that he was 
surpassed by any one in this particular, that he determined upon putting 
that nobleman's reputation for high-breeding to the test. With this view, 
he invited Lord Stair to dine with him, and placed him at his right 
hand. During dinner, the guest acquitted himself with his accustomed 
grace ; this was not displeasing to the king, himself a man of refine- 
ment. He however meditated a stroke of policy, which he felt confident 
his guest would be unprepared to encounter. Dinner concluded, the 
party rose from table, and the king led the way to the door of the apart- 
ment; when, suddenly stopping, he, with the most gracious air, signified 
that Lord Stair should precede him in quitting the room. 4i When the 
king commands, it is for the subject to obey," said the nobleman, and 
bowing profoundly, he passed out of the apartment, followed by the king. 
The monarch handsomely acknowledged Lord Stair's pre-eminence, 
remarking that any other man would have troubled him with cere- 
monious excuses. 



200 MY CONFESSIONS. 

The letter from England was then read aloud, and its perusal 
was followed by an opinion from the council of " thirty nine'' 
to this effect : " That Guido Sorelli, in quitting Florence, 
would not have to seek his fortune, on reaching the shores of 
England ; but to grasp one that had been already prepared for 
him!" 

This cordial reliance upon the promises and inducements held 
out by my English friend, and which led my advisers unhesi- 
tatingly to recommend my acceptance of his offer, proceeded 
from the high estimation in which the English were generally 
held by the Italians in those days ! when only the high-born 
and the intellectual portion of the nation travelled — the spirit 
of absenteism, and the ostentatious display of wealth before 
foreigners, had not then infected those classes who sadly de- 
preciate the national character abroad by a display of their 
vulgarity, their prejudices and their upstart demeanour, 

The only dissentient opinion to my quitting Florence was ad- 
vanced by an individual whom I much esteemed ; but his single 
voice could hardly outweigh with me that of the multitude, 
more especially as he had the reputation of being a misanthrope. 

He advised that I should write to my English friend, requiring 
him to advance the sum necessary for my journey from Florence 
to England-, and, from the readiness of his compliance, it might 
be judged whether that, which he promised to Guido Sorelli, 
was a substantial benefit or a mere shadowy anticipation. Then 
turning towards me a countenance, in whose earnest expression, 
the scepticisms of the misanthrope were lost in the disinterested 
friendship of the man, he added : 

" Remember, Guido, the caution which a great master has 
left to posterity in his ' Gerusalemme' — 

" He madly sports with Fortune that, in daring, would 
O'er balance small uncertainty with greater good !" 

The proposition of the misanthrope was, however, unani- 
mously rejected upon the principle, that so mercenary a plan 



MY CONFESSIONS, 201 

of action would doubtlessly offend one, in whom all agreed I 
had every reason to confide, and who was prepared — they con- 
fidently believed — to render Signor Guido a personage of no 
small importance in England, 

What was passing in the minds of my father and Cleofe, 
during this conference, could only be guessed by myself who 
knew them and loved them so well ! They had joined the 
majority who had voted for my quitting Florence, themselves, 
and my friends, to seek a more brilliant destiny in England. 
But to tear aside the veil of their feelings, would be to endea- 
vour, with a profane hand, to quench the flame that had come 
down from Heaven to consume a sacrifice accepted by the 
Creator. To those who love and feel acutely, I leave the task 
of analysing the elements that compose the sacrifice, which 
these two generous beings made in thus voluntarily consenting 
to part with their beloved Guido .... perhaps for ever /— 
for— 

" Ere time hath will'd that I should see 
My hour of absence fled, 
T may have bow'd to fate's decree, 
And slumber with the dead!" 



CHAPTER X. 



It was on the evening of the first of December 1820, that I 
resolved to adopt the counsel suggested to me by my friends 
the " Thirty-nine. " 

I immediately wrote to Zurich, informing Madame V's 
husband of my decision, and requesting him to send me eighty 
louis, out of the three hundred he had belonging to me in his 
possession, in order that I might equip myself suitably for my 
appearance in London. 

My friend replied to me by return of post. 

k 3 



202 MY CONFESSIONS. 

His letter was couched in strong terms of disapprobation ? 
and contained every argument he could employ to dissuade me 
from a step, which he declared would be fatal to my well-being . 
These were urged, however, with the honest warmth of an 
upright man, and a tender friend. 

The following is the letter, which my friend and his wife* 
who was equally prejudiced with himself against the English, 
deemed to me to have mutually composed, 

" To our friend, Guido. 

" The contents of your last letter have surprised us ex- 
ceedingly, and filled our minds with sorrow on your account, 
Oh ! would that we were near you at this moment ; for our 
words might then descend with a deeper weight into your 
heart, than those produced by the cold and measured tracing 
of the pen ! 

(< Oh ! why, dear Guido, will you again precipitate your- 
self into an abyss of darkness, after having found an asylum 
under an expanse of serenity ? Why, having gained a haven 
of peace, will you once more adventure your bark upon those 
waves, whose momentary calm was never assumed but to 
lure their victims to a surer destruction in the fatal vortex 
of their unquenchable wrath ? 

" The clouds, which have so long obscured your horizon — * 
the tempests whose fury had well nigh rendered you hopeless 
of ever gaining a haven of security, have not these been suf- 
ficient to show you what are the elements of human ex- 
istence ? 

" To think of quitting again your beautiful Florence — your 
country ! to abandon — perhaps for ever — an aged parent, who, 
from your infancy, has loved you with a love next to that of 
our Father in heaven ! To leave Cleofe— the companion, the 
friend, the solace of such a mind as yours, which ever needs 
the support of a beloved friend's counsel ! To quit a circle 
of friends, who have made you their centre ! and thus con- 
verted for you this tearful world into a little paradise 



MY CONFESSIONS. 203 

now to desert those, who seek in you their happiness, and 
whom it should be your duty to recompense with the greatest 
affection ; to give up your pupils, and, by so doing, to 
destroy a reputation difficult to establish, — that of professor 
of the Belles -Lett res, which has already enabled you indi- 
vidually, to maintain so eminent a station, and to please 
vour Maker, by doing good to your neighbour !" 

" And why is it thus ? 

" That you may go to England, and thus be enabled to 
boast with vain-glorious pretenders, ' I too have been to 
London.' 

" How poor a boast is this, dear Guido ! Do you fancy 
yourself likely to become a better man for having walked 
through the streets of London, which are for the greater 
part the paths of destruction ; where the sons of Mammon, 
more barefaced than Satan himself — who to men ever veils 
his deformity beneath an archangel's form — glory in their 
sinful attributes, and commit crimes unbiushingly before 
the eye of any uncontaminated being, who may have the 
misfortune to encounter them ; and who, exposed to such con- 
tagion, can hardly expect to escape, but through the inter- 
position of a merciful Providence ? 

" Do you imagine that when breathing, beneath a clouded 
sky, the murky atmosphere of an English November, and 
benumbed by the chilling and foggy exhalations of the Thames, 
images more poetical, more exalted will awaken within you, 
than those inspired by the rays of a Tuscan sun ; under 
whose gladdening influence yon are now respiring an air, 
which, in spring, in summer, or in autumn alike, partakes 
of the perfume of the rose, the jasmin and the orange flower ; 
and which, throughout winter, is impregnated with the sweetest 
odour of the violet ? 

" Oh ! do, we beseech you, remain upon the shores of Arno ! 

" Do you hope to meet in England more esteem, more 
friendship, more love than you have found in your own land ? 



204 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Oh no ! such liberality of treatment you must not look for 
from a race of people so proud, reserved and phlegmatic. 

l( I am a free-born Englishman! Such is their boast — such 
the quintessence of all that is noble in the estimation of 
an Englishman ! it is the fancied throne of envied distinction, 
which he claims as his birth-right ; and from whence he 
looks down in superiority upon the individuals of every nation, 
as if they were all beneath him. 

'* What then do you seek in England — what do you hope 
to find there ? Riches ? If wealth be your object, England 
certainly abounds with it, and there only, can a man gather 
more than he can ever live to enjoy. But beware that in 
obtaining your desire, it become not to vou the silk- chain 
with which the enemy of mankind often entangles the victim 
he would lure to his dark kingdom. 

" Is Guido then longing for riches ? would he forsake 
every thing and all who are dear to him, in search of wealth 
through innumerable difficulties, in which his immortal soul 
must be exposed to imminent danger ? If this be true, 
how much have we mistaken the Guido of former years — - 
how have we been cheated by an ignis fatuus ! how have 
heard an imaginary voice in an empty echo ! and fancied 
we beheld the substance, where there was naught but the 
phantom — a shadow resolving itself into nothingness. 

" This language may appear harsh to you : perhaps it 
is so ; but it proceeds from those, to whom you are very 
dear, and who feel that it is meant to save a friend threatened 
with ruin. It would be ill-timed to employ caresses, when 
by a necessary violence that friend can be rescued from im- 
pending danger — is it not thus a piety to be relentless ? 

" We urge you, to pause for a moment : we supplicate 
you, in the name of heaven— for our sakes who are dear 
to you — for your own sake, to examine, with calm dispas- 
sionate feelings, your present position, together with the 
prospect that is before you; and to weigh well the fatigue 



MY CONFESSIONS. 205 

the perils — the uncertainty against the advantages you hope 

to obtain by your sojourn in England ! then let the balance 
determine, whether your anticipated gain will be worth the 
sacrifices it will cost. 

*' In thus declaring to you, in the language of truth, that we 
look for no good in your contemplated expatriation, we 
have but performed our duty. 

" Nothing now remains for us but to recommend you 
to the keeping of the Most High, and to pray that He may 
enlighten and support you ; that, though He may suffer you 
to take a dangerous step, He may be pleased to be ever 
near you; to raise you when falling, to dry your tear in 
affliction ; and, finally, that He may guide your shattered 
bark into a haven of security. 

" Whether in prosperity or in poverty, whether in joy cr 
in sorrow, you will ever be our own Guido ; and we never 
will cease to be what we now subscribe ourselves, 

" THE FRIENDS OF GUIDO." 

Excellent and valued friends ! I exclaimed on concluding 
this letter; but, thought I, the number three, now constituted 
by your votes against my visit to England, bears but a small 
proportion to that of thirty-nine, and cannot outweigh the 
deliberate judgment of the majority, whose opinion, I feel 
bound to adopt, and therefore commit myself to the pro- 
tection of Him, who knows all things — sees and foresees 
all things ! 

I made no one the confident of this letter ; but I returned 
an answer to Zurich immediately, assuring my friends, I 
had read their communication with great attention, and with 
sentiments of affection and gratitude ; that they were not 
less dear to me for their advice ; but, that, upon a calm 
review of my own motives, of the two suggestions that offered 
themselves, to go, or to remain, the former had sounded 
so much more propitious to my ear, that I had hearkened 
to its dictate. 



206 MY CONFESSIONS, 



CHAPTER XL 

Another ordeal now awaited me : my resolution to quit 
my native country had yet to be exposed to a powerful test. 

There was at this period at Florence, a company of come- 
dians under Andolfati — himself an excellent actor. Two days 
after the decision against me on the occasion of my theatrical 
performances, a friend of Andolfati, called to offer me proposals 
to join his company as Prim' uomo, or Prima Amoroso, with a 
salary of four hundred sequins a year, with two benefits besides 
— magnificent terms in Italy, in those days.* 

* Andolfati was the only actor whose company had been permitted 
to represent La Congiura de* Pazzi, during the reign of Eliza, sister 
to Napoleon. 

Fochet, prefect of Florence, himself a man of eminent talents, and, 
although a stern enforcer of the laws he was bound to execute, much 
beloved by the great, the generous and the good, was the person who 
had countenanced the performance. 

Upon the appointed evening, thousands of persons vainly attempted 
to obtain admission into the Teatro Nuovo, for scarcely were the doors 
opened before it was filled instantaneously. 

Fochet himself was present in the private box of the sovereign. 
The crowd was immense, but as the curtain arose, every sound was 
hushed. It seemed as though the silence of the dead pervaded that 
vast assembly. 

u To suffer. ...still to suffer— Alas ! None other counsel canst thou give 
me, Father ?*' 

This was the commencement of a series of allusions, with which 
the piece abounded, to the political state of Italy at the period, and 
especially to local grievances that were calculated to rouse strong 
feelings of emotion upon a sensitive and much wronged people. 

A thrill seemed to run through the audience ; but their tumultuous 
applause lasted no longer than the report of a cannon, so fearful 
were they of losing any of the burning thoughts with which the 
tragedy abounds. Like the smothered heaving, whose subterranean 



MY CONFESSIONS. '207 

Upon such a passionate lover of the histrionic art as I then 
was, this proposal acted so powerfully, that it completely 
shook my previous resolution ; so that, upon a self-examina- 
tion, I discovered it still remained a doubtful question, whe- 
ther my wishes exhibited a majority for a journey to England, 
or for my going on the Italian stage, where I flattered myself 
I should receive the applause of the public, the good will of the 
authors, and the approbation of the fair. 

That applause which manifests itself in an unbroken silence, 
on the part of thousands, for fear of losing even a syllable in the 
delivery of a good actor, awakens in him a thrill of indescrib- 
able exultation. This I had more than once experienced. 

To renounce the wreath now offered me by Andolfati, was 
certainly a great sacrifice, although the flowers which com- 
posed that wreath were only to last beautiful and fresh as long 
as a single drop of oil remained to nourish the lamp of life. 
Although our name may be forgotten w 7 ith our existence, still 
does it seem the more alluring choice to pass the few days of 
our allotted pilgrimage, amid the delights of the valley, rather 
than to attempt an almost inaccessible acclivity, sustained but 
by a single hair of Hope's bright tress, who leads us and • 
cheers us onwards to its crowning temple ! 

Thus involved in a question of some difficulty, I was happily 
within reach of excellent counsel. I had a kind father to re- 
fer to as well as my dear Cleofe. I accordingly acquainted 
them with Andolfati's proposals. Having heard me to an end, 
" Guido !" exclaimed my father, <e you are now your own mas- 
ter ; but whenever in difficulty, you may need a parent's advice, 

echo is but the precursor of the earthquake, which is about to engulph 
a city, such was the half suppressed groan of the multitude, while 
Fochet sat gnawing the white handkerchief, he held to his face, with 
chagrin for having suffered the representation of La Congiura 
de* Pazzi. 

The performance over, he immediately despatched a message to 
Andolfati, prohibiting for ever a repetition of that performance in 
Italy, 



208 MY CONFESSIONS. 

he will give it you according to his heart's best suggestions. I 
am inferior to you in talent and in judgment, but it is a rare 
thing for a father's heart to err in his advice. These then 
are my sentiments. By adopting the alluring career offered 
by the stage, you would lower yourself in my estimation, and 
most likely in that of others who wish your welfare. Should 
you forsake the elevating and ennobling paths of literature, for 
such a choice, you will descend below the level of your own 
dignity, you will perchance eat the bread of adversity : still, 
more probably turn a deaf ear to the dictates of virtue, and 
finally forfeit the love of good men, and the protection of your 
Maker. Whenever you have recited in my presence, when- 
ever I have listened to the applause you have so deservedly 
obtained, my eyes have overflown with tears ; not only from 
my heart's exultation in being the father of such a son, but 
from the inward fear that you might one day descend from the 
comparatively respectable position, which, as one of the dilet- 
tanti, you now maintain, to mingle in the vortex of those va- 
gabonds, who, generally destitute of honour, of morality, and 
religion, throng the Italian stage, and, at length, are refused 
by our church the rites of christian burial. Yet still, Guido, 
I repeat, you are your own master ; you have sought my coun- 
sel — I have given it — and may God assist you in your deci- 
sion.' ' 

" That decision is at once made — and I will not be an 
actor," I exclaimed. Cleofe took my hand, and for some mo- 
ments held it to her lips, ere she imprinted upon it her heart-felt 
kiss ; whilst the good old man folding me in his arms, bathed 
my cheek with the tear of paternal affection. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 209 



CHAPTER XII. 

After bidding adieu to my pupils, whom I had pre- 
viously transferred to the tuition of several professors — my 
intimate friends — I took leave of my native town ; and on the 
morning of the fifteenth of December, found myself at the 
" Porta del Popolo," the principal entrance to Rome, 

Yes ! I was now entering that Rome, whose name, however 
slandered by the debased part of mankind, however blighted 
by the withering hand of time, still lives to be cherished by all 
patriotic Italians — those who 

" Serving, writhe beneath their chains/' 

and have still the courage to glory in being the sons of a 
country so classical from its poetical associations, so noble and 
so romantic from its history. 

He who is not an Italian, cannot possibly feel the same in- 
tense emotions, upon first entering this city of sepulchres — this 
city of ruins which even in their decay, surpass infinitely by 
their beauty and splendour the insignificance and degraded 
taste of the recent structures that surround them. 

An involuntary thrill of awe arrests the passer-by, as he 
gazes on those mute tokens of a departed nation, while from 
their sacred ashes, a voice seems to demand of him individu- 
ally : " Canst thou rank with a Scsevola, a Scipio, a Curtius, 
a Marcellus, a Titus, a Brutus, or a Cicero, or any of the 
mighty dead which surround thee in their repose ? Canst thou 
too, like ourselves, baost of being the love, the ornament, 
the support of thy countrymen ? We demand of thee not, 
whether thou art a Roman, or a barbarian : we ask, art 
thou a true man, or art thou another Catiline, who, for 
the acquirement of riches or of other sordid enjoyment, 



210 MY CONFESSIONS- 

wouidst barter thy country, thy kindred, thy wife, thy 
children, and even thine own soul ? Art thou like Anthony, 
who, on the very verge of royalty, forgot in the charms of an 
abandoned woman, his high calling ; forgot that he was a 
Roman and a man ? Dost thou lie before thy God, thy fel- 
low-men and thyself ; by assuming the mask of a virtue thou 
does not possess ; and, like the hypocrite, dost thou besmear thy 
brow with ashes, to impose upon the credulous that thou art 
fasting at the festive board of mortal delights :" 

Alas ! the degeneracy of these days ! Could we but pene- 
trate the secret recesses of the heart — which is possible alone 
to God — how many should we discover whose reply must be : 
" Yes, I too, am a Catiline ! I am an Antony ! 1 am an hypo- 
crite ! I am not a Roman ! I deserve not the dignified appella- 
tion of a true man." 

Z\Iany foreigners that visit Rome for the first time, seem to 
enter it with the arrogance of a tyrant about to possess himself 
of a country he has subjugated. In that moment the}' seem to 
fancy themselves the conquerors of the queen of the world ; 
and though they see her at their feet, humiliated and fallen, 
no sentiment of compassion is awakened within them for the 
poor victim of such unheard of misfortune. No ; each footstep 
they take, is but to trample on the prostrate giant ; tri- 
umphing as if they were the victors, and exulting over the 
vanquished. 

<( It is now no longer Rome !" is the ejaculation of many 
profane authors— of many foreign sacrilegious poets. 

That there are a few amongst these strangers, who, upon 
viewing this fallen grandeur, do, with hearts subdued, raise their 
souls to Heaven, acknowledge the vanity of this world, and thank 
God that, by so tragic a lesson, He has taught them their own 
insufficiency, I deny not : but such minds are like the lily, 
whose unobtrusive beauty surpasses Solomon on his throne, 
arrayed in all his glory. 

In this Rome, then, the native of Italv, makes his first en- 



MY CONFESSIONS. 211 

trance, with a heart where not only the feeling I have before 
mentioned predominates, but where that other sentiment 
reigns, whose primitive nature belongs but to the Italian, and 
is wholly Italian. It is that indefinable feeling of absorbing 
grief we experience upon beholding our deceased mother, a 
beloved, a lovely and virtuous parent, from whom, and upon 
whose prosperity and existence depended her son's liberty, and 
the happiness of all his days upon earth. 

With feelings such as these I entered Rome. But I must 
here pause in their expression : my heart is too full for words. 
Let him who can sympathize with me, think for me, reflect 
and feel with me ! 

I arrived in Rome in quality of travelling companion and pro- 
fessor of the Italian language to an English ecclesiastic, named 
Fortescue. He was a person of high literary attainments, of 
highly cultivated mind, and already invested with that refine- 
ment of manner, which the English of education acquire by 
travelling on the continent. Having been informed of my 
approaching visit to England, Fortescue persuaded me that, 
before I made my appearance in London, it was absolutely 
necessary I should have visited Rome. 

" We should think little of an Italian, or of any gentleman 
who had not seen the capital of the world/' said he ; " besides 
we have a prejudice in England, which ZoVii — a good gram- 
marian, but execrable poet — has resolved into a proverb which 
all the English have learned by heart, ' the Tuscan dialect 
with the Roman accent, 3 If you reside some time in Rome, the 
English will regard you as a phenomenon, not doubting 
that from the mouth of Signer Guido who has tasted ' i 
broccoli strascicati they must hear the Italian in all its 
purity. 

"This may be a weakness, but the world teems with the 
bigotry of prejudice, nor must you imagine that England is at 
all exempted from this failing. A seat in my carriage is at 
your service. In Rome you can continue your instructions to 



212 MY CONFESSIONS. 

me in your language, and obtain as many more pupils as you 
may meet amongst my countrymen there." 



CHAPTER XIII. 



My desire to see St. Peter's was so great, that I scarcely re- 
garded the triumphal arch of Constantine, or any of the other 
wonders of Rome, and impatiently awaited the dawn of the 
following morning, after passing a sleepless night. 

Ere the sun had arisen, I was standing at the door of a dear 
friend and countryman of mine, Ferdinando Petzet, who was 
also a pupil of Morrocchesi, and had now with his wife joined 
the " Compagnia Blanes." 

Ferdinando had only arrived in Rome the preceding evening. 
We had fortunately met ; and had arranged the next morning 
to visit St. Peter's together. 

I found he had not yet risen ; 

" The world's excess ... .its soft luxurious rest 
Has virtue chased, an exile from its breast." 

This classic reproof from me soon roused him from his in- 
dolence, and in a very short time he was prepared to accom- 
pany me to the cathedral of St. Peter's. 

Behold us now standing together at the entrance of La 
Piazza San Pietro ! 

" And that is the cupola?— that the Church of St. Peter ?" 
I exclaimed, starting back with surprise ; " why how have you 
deceived me ! Bruneliesco's cupola, our dome at Florence, 
is six times larger than that of this vaunted cathedral !" 

"A little patience, Guido !" replied Ferdinando drily, who 
was aware of the secret of my misconception. I soon found that 



MY CONFESSIONS. 213 

I had somewhat compromised myself in my observations upon 
St. Peter's Church. In some confusion, therefore, I preserved 
silence until I stood at the foot of the staircase of this "won- 
der of the world.' ' 

" You cannot persuade me, Ferdinando," said I, approach- 
ing him with a look which would have bespoken his indulgence, 
" that this great St. Peter's is not, after all, but a little affair. " 

" Come ! come ! let us ascend," said my friend smiling, and 
taking my hand, we gained the top of the grand staircase to- 
gether, and were now within a few steps of the principal en- 
trance. 

" What is your opinion now ?'' asked my companion, 

" I know not how it is," replied I, "but I fear, it is my 
destiny in this world to behold every thing through a most 
diminished medium." 

" Observe that column attentively for a moment,'' said my 
friend, pointing to the one we stood in front of. I obeyed : 
and what was my astonishment upon beholding that, which I 
I had but a few moments before pronounced almost a mean 
structure, had now assumed a dimension vaster than I had ever 
before seen or imagined. 

Whilst thus almost beside myself with surprise, and volubly 
demanding a solution of this illusion, Ferdinando, who had 
preceded me to the Porta Maggiore, raised the curtain with his 
right hand, and now stood pointing to me with his left, with a 
look of exultation, that he was to be the first to usher his 
friend Guido into this " temple of temples". . . .this tabernacle 
on earth, the most magnificent that, since the days of 
Solomon, man had ever raised to the glory of the King of 
Kings." 

If it be possible for man, while still in his state of corrupti- 
bility, to have a conscious foretaste of immortality ; if, while 
on this stage of living death, he may behold the only true life ; 
if, amid the strife of human passions, where the heart is the 
great awakener of warfare, man may even for a brief moment 
anticipate a promised paradise, that, indeed, is the only moment 



214 MY CONFESSIONS. 

when for the first time, an exalted mind finds itself within the 
walls of St. Peter's. 

There, though invisible to humanity, He who was born in a 
stable, but now in His own abode at the right hand and in the 
glory of His Father, is present to the mental vision. There 
the index of that fiery hand, whose import to Belshazzar had 
pronounced the departure of his kingdom, reappears to the 
mind of the christian in the softer characters of a more celestial 
fire, declaring to the true church of Christ — " The gates of 
Hell shall not prevail against thee !" 

There man cannot fail to remember his unworthiness ; yet, 
by the blessing of a Redeemer, feels himself restored to pardon 
and his Creator's love. 

There Heaven displays itself, in opposition to Hell, and man 
contrasts the darkness of vice with the resplendency of virtue — 
the beauty of the angels with the deformity of their fallen 
brethren— the ephemeral smile of a faithless and cruel world, 
with that of a God of Peace who beatifies man and gives him 
immortality ! 

As I entered St. Peter's, a feeling took possession of my 
whole being, unlike that I had ever before experienced, even in 
the most magnificent locality, or in the presence of the most 
beloved ! — I felt as though in paradise ! 

In profound silence I advanced with my friend towards the 
principal altar, which, though apparently but three minutes' 
distance from us, occupied us at least a quarter of an hour in ' 
reaching. I prostrated myself at its shrine, and with a heart 
overflowing with emotion, inwardly ejaculated " I thank thee, 
my God ! — now I am content to die !" — I could no more. 

He who has never been to St. Peter's, can form no con- 
ception of the magnificence of the architect's imagination ; 
or rather, he can never comprehend the beatitude, the celestial 
design and the sublimity of conception of a mortal architect 
inspired by the Holy Spirit, from whom alone emanates all that 
is noble — all that is lovely ; but which weak and presumptuous 



MY CONFESSIONS. 215 

man too often ascribes to his own powers, and calls the work 
of his own hands. 

I will not dwell upon a circumstance, with which most are^ 
doubtlessly acquainted — viz, that the individual selected by 
God to raise this earthly temple to His glory, was not only an 
excellent architect, painter, poet and sculptor, but a virtuous 
man and a christian — the Florentine, Michael Angelo Bonar- 
rotti. 

The christian who has never visited St. Peter's, where 
repose the ashes of that Apostle, and of his coadjutor, St. 
Paul, can hardly conceive the profound veneration produced 
upon the mind when thus brought into close proximity with 
the dust of two men, who were the first to erect the standard 
of Christ, who invited men to repair to it, and, who, by their 
example, showed them how to die on the cross of their divine 
master. It seems as though Christ, who has received them to 
His eternal throne in Heaven, had inspired Michael Angelo to 
invest the tombs of these His two dearest sons on earth, with 
the greatest honour and magnificence. One fancies we behold 
the sepulchral stone about to be removed at the blast of the last 
trumpet, sounded by that same angel who broke the seal at the 
sepulchre of Christ ! In the silence of these two tombs we 
hearken to an angelic choir, chanting their eternal hymn of 
peace ; and in the rays of the sun, whenever they stream down 
upon them, we behold the smile of a Creator upon the stillv 
repose of His creature. 

One object which particularly attracted my attention at 
Rome, was the statue of Moses reproving the Israelites, after 
having broken the tablets of stone, for their rebellion to the 
God who had protected them. 

It is wonderful to trace, in such legible characters upon that 
marble-face, the zeal of the incensed servant of God, tinctured 
with the compassion of the man for his fellow -mortals. It is 
said, that upon its completion, Michael Angelo, in fixing his 
eyes once more upon his work, was so overcome himself with 



216 MY CONFESSIONS. 

the expression of the countenance, that, striking a hammer on 
its head, he exclaimed — M Why dost thou not speak ?" 

Having at length seen and admired together many objects of 
interest, we retraced our steps towards the Porta Maggiore. 

" Let us turn and take another view of the stupendous 
whole," said Ferdinando Petzet. 

We did so. 

" How is it, then/' said I, " that this temple, which I now 
acknowledge to be so vast, appears to us, from this point, no 
bigger than an egg-shell ?" 

Petzet, who was tolerably conversant with architecture, con- 
tented himself with replying to me in general terms. " The 
secret is in the harmony of its whole construction," he replied, 
-—an explanation which, to one who knew nothing of the art, 
did not serve to clear up the matter. " What think you of this 
column, encircled with a garland, on the summit of which is 
placed a flying cherub," he continued. 

/'It is free, delicate and graceful," I replied. 

" Observe, then," he proceeded, " a single lily, or one of 
the roses of this garland, and tell me how large it appears to 
you/' 

I fixed my eyes upon a rose, which became suddenly so 
magnified, that not only the infant Cupid, with his bow and 
quiver and arrow, but Ferdinando and myself could, with ease, 
have inserted ourselves within its encircling folds. 

Petzet, without giving time to my surprised exclamation, 
continued — 

" Now, observe well the little angel which holds the wreath, 
and tell me what you think of him." 

" Little, indeed ! why he is a giant !" exclaimed I. 

Ferdinando smiled, and we left the church. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 217 



CHAPTER XV. 

During my three months' residence at Rome, I had an 
opportunity of inspecting the greater part of its remarkable 
objects. 

But, amid all the ancient reliques, that which impressed 
my mind with the deepest veneration, was the view of the 
Colosseum by night. I had thought the silence which reigned 
without the building very remarkable — but, when I stood 
within the ruined Amphitheatre, it fell upon my heart like 
the silence of death, Its effect upon my mind is indescribable ! 

I cannot conceal from you, dear Silvio, the melancholy 
and disgusting impression I received, while at Rome, from 
witnessing the spectacle I am about to describe. 

It was a Feast-day, in commemoration of one of the nu- 
merous saints, which crowd the calendar. The Pope — 
the amiable and virtuous Pius VII — was to celebrate mass 
in the Cathedral of St. Peter's, and afterwards to bestow 
the papal benediction* 

Upon such occasions, the English had exclusively as- 
signed to them the best places in the Church, close to the 
altar, from whence they could witness every part of the 
solemnity. 

I shared this advantage with them on the present occasion, 
from having accompanied my friend Fortescue thither. 

An innumerable concourse of Romans had assembled, I 
cannot say sufficient to fill St. Peter's, but, to lose themselves 
in its windings, as the rivulet is lost in the river, and the river 
in the sea, such being the vastness of this temple, that 
the greater the multitude, the more gigantic appear its di- 
mensions. 

We had been waiting about an hour, when we beheld 
through the Porta Maggiore, the pontifical dignitary ap- 
proaching. 



218 MY CONFESSIONS. 

He was seated on a throne, borne upon the shoulders 
of several robust looking Romans, preceded by the herald, 
the bishops, cardinals and other officers of his palace, and 
accompanied on either side by a long file of soldiers in full 
uniform, with their hats on, their swords ' at their sides, 
and carbines thrown across their shoulders. 

As they approached the high altar, my eyes became rivetted 
upon him ; he who, in Florence, had bestowed upon me his 
benediction— upon him whom 1 so loved and venerated, and 
in the marble hue of whose seraphic countenance I could not 
but trace the melancholy evidence, that this was probably the last 
look of affection he might be ever permitted to cast upon 
his flock. I felt as though my eyes would never be weary 
of gazing upon him, and regarded him with the same in- 
tensity as we look upon a beloved object for the last time, 

A feeling of anguish, of affection, of envy, each by turns 
took possession of my mind. It was anguish to behold 
the sufferings of fading mortality ; love for him, who had 
been a true father to the church, the friend to the poor, 
to the unhappy, to the upright man and the christian; and 
I envied the pilot who, having through this 

" Mighty flood, unchecked by tides, 1 ' 

guided his bark safe and uninjured into its haven, seemed 
about to receive, in recompense, the crown of peace and glory 
from the hand of the most beneficent of sovereigns. 

Hitherto I had paid no attention whatever to the soldiery ; 
but after the Pontificate had descended from the throne, 
and had knelt at the foot of the altar with the profoundest 
humiliation, I was startled by the clank of the carbines which 
were thrown simultaneously from their shoulders, as they also 
prostrated themselves. I now observed the pomp and osten- 
tation which had accompanied the pontiff ; and such were 
the indignant sentiments it awakened in my heart, that 
though my faith in Jesus was still unshaken, every feeling 



MY CONFESSIONS. 21$ 

of respect and veneration for this head of the church — 
this visible Christ — evaporated at once. " Just heaven" — a 
voice within me seemed to ejaculate — " what a fearful con- 
trast is this pomp, to the self-denial and humility which 
should characterize a representative of the Redeemer ! Is 
not this theatrical exhibition an impiety, by which a minister 
of the gospel assumes the air and importance of a Ceesar ? 
Just God ! that man should not only be so profane, but 
so senseless ! Is it not virtually denying Christ to represent Him 
at the head of an armed force ? Where is the distinction 
between the Pope and the Grand Signor— between Mahomet 
and this representative of Christ ? — between the sword and 
the cross ? Oh blessed humility ! thou noble basis on which 
Jesus founded His doctrine ! alas ! into what an abyss art 
thou plunged by the Catholic priesthood of our day ! whither 
shall we seek thee ? where find thee ? when shall we ever 
look on thee again ? alas ! not in days like these of blind- 
ness and perversity ! 

" And the servant of the Lord must not strive ; but 
be gentle unto all men, apt to teach, patient, in meekness 
instructing those who oppose themselves; if God, peradventure , 
will give them repentance to the acknowledging of the truth ; 
and that they may recover themselves out of the snare of 
the devil, who are taken captive by him at his will."— (Second 
Epistle of Paul the Apostle, to Timothy, chap. 2. v 23, 
«4, 25.) 



" Thousands of angels, at thy nod 
Had wing'd their flight from realms of bliss 
To teach fell Judas, Thou wert God, 
And blast him for his traitor kiss ! 

But mercy e'en in that dread hour 
Reprov'd the warfare love had shown, 
And Malchus heal'd, proclamed the power 
Each other power had o'er thrown !" 

L 2 



220 MY CONFESSIONS- 



CHAPTER XVI. 



Each moment that I did not devote to Fortescue, in 
accompanying him to view every thing worthy of observation 
in Rome, I spent with my friend Petzet, who, with his 
wife, had enrolled himself among the Compagnia Blanes p 
in the Teatro Argentina. Petzet, who possessed a truly 
Italian, I might say a Roman spirit, was an enthusiastic 
admirer of all the broken columns — nay, of the humblest 
stones, which bore upon themselves the seal of antiquity — 
reliques after which — not to disguise the secret feelings of 
my sacrilegious heart — I, at that time, would not have given 
a straw, after having entered St. Peter's, and witnessed the 
splendour of design with which the Holy Spirit had inspired 
the sublime architect. 

One morning, Petzet and I quitted the house, my friend 
carrying three large volumes under his arm. 

" What do you propose doing with your library ?" I 
demanded; " and may I ask who are the authors, whose 
company seem so necessary to your walk ?" 

" These books are guides of Rome, by different authors, " 
replied Ferdinando ; " I bring them with me, that in case 
any of the ancient reliques, we are about to visit, should 
not be noticed in the one, we shall have the resource of 
the other two. It would be highly culpable in us were 
we, upon our return to Florence, unable to speak authori- 
tatively upon what we have seen, and, like intelligent travellers, 
to satisfy our friends by substantial proofs, that we had 
really been at Rome, and well examined its wonders. 

My friend Petzet, though one of the most amiable of men* 
had however one failing — common enough, I believe, in all 



MY CONFESSIONS. 221 

countries — that of possessing an ear that resented any grotesque 
or barbarous pronunciation of his native language. A whim- 
sical exemplification of this peculiarity occurred during our 
stay at Rome. 

One evening, Petzet engaged an Austrian officer to play 
with him at billiards* Ferdinando was the best player in 
Tuscany, and hitherto he had not met with a rival in Rome. 
The saloon in which they played was much frequented, and, 
on this occasion, the company was very numerous. The 
progress of the game appeared so interesting, that it gave 
rise to many bets, in most of which Petzet eagerly participated . 

For the first two hours, Petzet had decidedly the advantage, 
and the bets in which he was interested, realized a sum which 
he had never dreamed of possessing in his life. Meanwhile 
the German remained perfectly unmoved ; conscious of pos- 
sessing a little mountain of gold- sand, he heeded not the 
single grains constantly falling from the hillock. 

Not so, Petzet. Excited to a high degree, he suffered him- 
self, at the conclusion of every game, to be prevailed upon 
by the wealthy barbarian to play double or quits. His very 
soul seemed in his eyes, while every muscle of his expressive 
countenance was in action. At length Fortune, with the fickle- 
ness of her sex, seemed resolved to prove to Petzet, that in 
play, as well as in war, her favors are not always bestowed 
on the most skilful and deserving. A false hit from Ferdi- 
nando gave rise to contention between the two players ; 
though from the state of the game, it might have turned in 
favor of the Austrian officer. 

Petzet, gifted with eloquence and great powers of per- 
suasion, advanced innumerable arguments to prove that he had 
not violated the laws of the game. But when the German, 
with Stentorian lungs, proceeded by his more boisterous 
arguments to appeal to the spectators, in Italian, as lu- 
dicrous as it was barbarous, all his verbs being in the in- 
finitive mood, Ferdinando, without waiting for their decision, 
flung the cue upon the board, and at once abandoned his 



%%% MY CONFESSIONS. 

claim. Then closing both ears with his hands, he exclaimed ; 
" Peace, peace, German ! 

" What hideous outrage this to Tuscan ears t" 

thus vindicating the wrong Fortune had so remorselessly 
put upon him, by holding up to derision the ridiculous object 
of her favor. 

The peal of laughter which followed this impromptu, though 
no more pleasing than the braying of the ass to the wealthy 
barbarian, discoursed such sweet music to my satirical friend , 
that it consoled him for the large sum of money by which it 
had been purchased. 

I was too glad to avail myself of the pleasant companion - 
ship of my gifted friend and countryman, Petzet, not to 
accompany him in most of his visits in search of antique 
remains. In his society I could hardly fail to imbibe some 
of the enthusiastic fervor which animated him, while con- 
templating the glorious fragments of ancient splendor, as- 
sociated as they are with characters and events that seem 
to increase our veneration and wonder, as time makes their 
separation from us wider. 

To have listened to Petzet's description ; the imposing cir- 
cumstances in which such a triumphal arch had been raised ; 
against what invaders such a bridge had been employed as 
a defence ; to what divinity a particular temple had been erected, 
what priest or priestess had presided at its shrine, and what 
was the nature of their sacrifice, had been enough to animate 
one less susceptible than Guido Sorelli. 

We had inspected many of these interesting objects, when 
one morning, Ferdinando and I found ourselves standing 
before a magnificent column, whose capital presented the 
splendid remnant of a great arch, but to which the bad 
taste of the present age had made some additions — with a view, 
I suppose, of presenting to the modern Italian the humiliating 
contrast between the imperishable foundation of the dead, 
and the ephemeral superstructure of the living. Beneath this 
column, and in its vicinity stood men and women vending fish* 



MY CONFESSIONS. 22S 

Here my antiquarian friend paused, and proceeded hastily 
to turn over the pages of one of his constant companions — 
the guide books. His eye glanced from the book to thfc 
column, from the column to the book with impatient rapidity. 

There was evidently no allusion to the column in the book 
he had opened : accordingly, another was eagerly scanned. 
That was equally barren. 

A third making no mention of this admired relique, he 
turned abruptly to me, and exclaimed : 

" Dost thou remember, Guido, in the history of Rome, 
to what temple, to what public building or triumphal arch 
this column relates ?'' 

" Not I, indeed/' replied I, smiling. 

" The guides do not mention it, 3 ' he added with some as- 
perity of manner ; but whether awakened by his own igno- 
rance, by mine, or by the insufficiency of the guides, I know 
not — perhaps it was a combination of the three. 

His impatience, however, seemed not to be easily restrained ; 
for encountering a common-looking person, he cried aloud 
to him : 

" Here my worthy friend ! Tell me, if you please, what 
is the meaning of this column ?"| 

The poor man shrugged his shoulders, and by other tokens 
seemed to say : " What does it signify to me what may have 
been this column or any other of the ruins which you wealthy 
vagabonds post one end of the world to the other to visit';' 7 
and without uttering a word, he continued his walk. 

Petzet looked at me quite disgusted at the rudeness of this 
Roman plebeian, accustomed as he was to the civility and 
the intelligence of the humblest of the Florentines, and which, 
indeed, characterizes all the Tuscan rustics* But, before he 
could utter the bitter sarcasm, which was on his lip, against 
the modern Roman, we beheld a respectable looking young 
priest advancing towards us, to whom, as he approached 
within hearing, Ferdinando exclaimed : 

" Signor Abatino, favor me by informing us to what 
temple or to what other structure this column belonged ?" 



224 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Without looking at the object in question, the ecclesiastic 
approached us, and after raising his eyes, he lowered them 
again with an expression of the deepest humility. 

" I am grieved, Sirs, that I am unable to satisfy you, 
not having yet completed my own researches upon the subject: 
but I pray you, attribute my ignorance to my youth, for I 
only yesterday attained my seventeenth year." 

He had until now held his nicchio* in his hand : but having 
uttered these words, he replaced it upon his head, made a 
profound obeisance, and departed. 

The mystery of this column began now to divert us, when 
we beheld a third personage approaching, one whose figure 
and stride made him appear almost a giant. Petzet's self- 
love having been pacified by the display of ignorance in 
others, he accordingly resumed his naturally sarcastic gaiety, 
and advancing towards the new-comer, exhibited in his 
person fhe contrast of a dwarf to a giant. With an air of 
importance that seemed but humility when compared with that 
of this moving mass of earth, he thus accosted him : 

" Sir Roman, I pray thee ! please to inform us of the 
ancient name of that column ?" 

" That column ?" 

" Yes, sir, that before us." 

The man -mountain raised his eyes towards the object, bent 
his brows, and observed it in profound silence for nearly 
three minutes ; he then looked down upon us, whose stature, 
scarcely reached his hip, and replied in a voice of thunder ; 
" The ancients, Sir, used to call it the arch of the fishmarket" 

te How, Sir," exclaimed Petzet, much irritated, " had then 
the ancient Romans so great a veneration for fish, that they 
actually erected a triumphal column to its honor ?" 

At these words, I was betrayed into so excessive a fit of 
laughter, that Petzet, apprehensive both for my safety and 
his own, took me by the arm, and compelled me to run 
along with him as fast as our legs would cany us ; not for- 

* Nicchio is the three cornered hat worn by the priests in Italy* 



MY CONFESSIONS. 225 

Setting, however, to look behind him, from time to time, 
to observe if the leviathan was pursuing us. The latter, 
however, paralized at feeling himself the object of mirth 
to two young Florentines, who, contrasted with him, were 
like two squirrels presuming to bite the trunk of an elephant, 
remained for some minutes unable to advance a step, glaring 
upon us with eyes distended with rage, as long as the dust 
raised by our steps was visible. 

If Petzet's turn for sarcasm, and Guido's sense of the 
ridiculous had given a free rein to our tongues, the speed of 
our limbs was certainly superior. Taking advantage, there- 
fore, of the pause in which the spell of wrath seemed to have 
nailed the Roman to the pavement, we gained a distance 
far beyond the possibility of being reached by him whose 
little finger could have annihilated us. 

Weary at length with running, we came to a halt, and, 
after having spent a whole hour in a jesting review of the 
pretensions of our would-be instructor, and profound Homan 
antiquarian, we separated in a jovial mood. 



CHAPTER XVII. 



The day had now arrived in which I was to bid adieu 
to the " Queen of the world' '—to wander for the last time 
among the sepulchres of the illustrious dead ; to contemplate 
the munificent hand of God, shown in the talent of that man 
who had raised the structure of St. Peter's, and to deplore, 
while lingering on this consecrated spot, the poverty of 
the modern world, in reflecting upon the byegone days of 
antiquity. 

On the eve of my departure from Rome, wearied and de- 
pressed from having during the day, taken leave of so many 

l 3 



226 MY CONFESSIONS. 

valued friends, I sought to fly from myself— or rather to dis- 
sipate the melancholy reflections solitude will always awaken. 
Deprived of the society of those we love, a painful sense of iso- 
lation oppresses us. To obviate this depression, I proceeded 
to the " Teatro Argentina," where I knew Ferdinando and his 
wife were to perform in one of Goldoni's comedies. 

I had bidden farewell to these excellent and valued friends, 
but a few hours before — a farewell that it was but too likely 
would be the last I should exchange with them. On finding 
myself alone, the void in my heart produced by the final sepa- 
ration from these friends became so intolerable, that I could 
not resist the temptation of once more beholding them, though 
from a distance. Gazing from the pit of the theatre, upon 
their features, rendered so familiar to my contemplation from 
our recent close intimacy, it seemed to me as though they were 
the shades of friends who had departed. 

I returned to my hotel, but did not retire to rest. I packed 
my valise, and seating myself in the chimney corner, remained 
there revolving a multitude of thoughts, until four o'clock 
struck upon my eai\ The next moment the loud appeal of the 
" Vetturino," roused me effectually from my reverie. I soon 
found myself seated in the coach, where, observing that I had 
three travelling companions, I drew my hat over my eyes, and 
passed once more the Porta del Popolo, full of regrets for all I 
had quitted, which were, however, not unmixed with pleasing 
anticipations of the joy I should feel in revisiting Florence. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



Arrived at the confines of Tuscany, and about to enter 
once more that happy country, I felt my heart revive : I 
breathed anew. 

If the fruitful soil of my beloved country has justly obtained 



MY CONFESSIONS, 227 

for it the title of the garden of Europe, it is no less remarkable 
that the genial influence of its heavenly climate equally ferti- 
lizes and invigorates the heart of man. Content — the summit 
of worldly happiness — is there to be found in a much larger pro- 
portion than in any other spot of the earth. Its inhabitants are 
eminently characterized by their feelings of natural refinement 
and benevolence. A worthy father of such a people, is the 
present Grand Duke ! 

One of the great evils of the unfortunate political division of 
Italy, is the want of a pervading national spirit which is needed 
to harmonize the manners, customs, tastes and feelings of the 
inhabitants of its separate states, They are now occasionally 
the very antipodes of each other. Is it just, is it natural, that 
at Rome, and at Naples, the Florentine should be called a 
foreigner ; he too, with equal absurdity, applying that epithet 
to the inhabitant of those states ? When such cruel distinc- 
tions shall become cancelled in the heart of the Italians, then 
may they hope to throw oif the yoke of the barbarian ; then 
and not until then ! 

If the Englishman and the Swiss, in re-entering Tuscany 
from Naples or Rome, feel themselves at home in this land of 
ease, how much more reason had I, a Florentine, to feel myself 
not only consoled for my absence, but in a state of transport 
at my return ! Each respiration that I took, sounded to my 
heart as a warning of regret, conscious as I was that bat a few 
brief days would behold me separated, perhaps for ever, from 
all I loved best on earth — distant from the most beautiful land 
which the sun salutes with its golden rays. The influence of 
that delicious atmosphere, whose healing balm so soothes the 
heart, however, soon restored my serenity and inspired me 
with that fortitude which is needful to encounter the evils that 
destiny may have in store for us. 

From the hour I re-entered Florence to that in which I 
quitted it, nothing worthy of observation occurred to me, if I 
except the receipt of the two following letters from my Zurich, 
friends. 



223 MY CONFESSIONS, 

" Guido, 

" We are grieved to find that you are still resolved to take 
up your abode in dismal England, and thus, perhaps, to be- 
come lost to us for ever. Oh ! if we have any influence still 
remaining in your heart, we pray you to consider once more 
what you are about to do. Ask yourself again, am I born to 
dwell far away from those I love, and by whom I am loved ? 
Once more examine your own resources, and say if you find in 
yourself the courage, the apathy, the recklessness of feeling so 
indispensable to one in your position. If so, then prepare your- 
self for the encounter, turn from your native Florence, and quit 
it for ever, and may heaven be your guide. 

(( YOUR FRIENDS." 

" P.S. — Upon your reply will depend whether we retain your 
eighty louis, or remit them by return of post," 

I was now too deeply pledged to swerve from my engage- 
ment, without incurring the imputation of weakness and vacil- 
lation. I therefore wrote to this effect to my friends, and at 
the expiration of three weeks received an enclosure from Zu- 
rich. Upon opening it, however, I found it contained nothing 
but a bill of exchange to the value of eighty louis, not a line, 
not a word of friendship or affection. 

" They are angry with me !" I exclaimed, much mortified ; 
" but patience ! we shall yet be friends." 

But a very few days now remained of my stay at Florence. I 
had no occupation then of any kind. As soon as I had risen, there- 
fore, I used to repair to the " Magliabecana library" to study* 
to read, or to gossip sotto voce, with the students I there en- 
countered. In this splendid public library, I had passed the 
brightest hours of my existence before I had quitted Florence 
for Pisa, and afterwards for Zurich, and, subsequently, when 
I spent my last two years in my native town. Notwithstand- 
ing this saloon was one of public resort, I always found a seat 
had been reserved for me at my accustomed table. Either by 



MY CONFESSIONS. 229 

chance, or by the courtesy of those who, knowing me by 
sio-ht, and observing my regular attendance, chose not to oc- 
cupy my post, even during my absence. 

Among the readers at this table, there was one individual 
who had occupied the same seat for fifty years. He was then 
eighty-five. He was a jew, of the name of Finzi, a man of 
great literary attainments, and was a cynic as well as a philo- 
sopher. His whole nourishment consisted of bread and an- 
chovies ; and as he both breakfasted and dined at the library, 
fragments of anchovy were often to be discovered between the 
pages of the old volumes which lay open before him. He was 
-then occupied in the modern history of Europe. At the con- 
clusion of his frugal repast, he would lay his head upon his 
book, and indulge in profound repose for two hours. I could 
never ascertain what was his beverage, but I imagined it to be 
water, not only from the nature of his repast, which must have 
created much thirst, but from the appearance of the " outward 
man," which bespoke either great penury, or great avarice. 
To give to my readers an exact description of this man's 
physiognomy far exceeds indeed my powers, although his 
features seem still fresh in my recollection. 

Never have [seen so lengthened, so attenuated a counte- 
nance on the shoulders of man ! — His grey hair — it was not 
yet totally white — fell in profusion over his neck in the ex- 
tremest disorder. His forehead was very ample : upon each 
eye-brow two large fleshy protuberances were visible, which 
might have been mistaken for the horns of the Satyr. His 
thick grizzled eye-lashes were at the same time so long and 
close, as almost to conceal his eye. It always required a near 
vicinity to be able to discover that feature ; and when the thick 
curtain that interposed was at length raised, the effect was 
very remarkable. His eyes were exceedingly black, with an 
expression at once fiery, suspicious and penetrating. It ever 
seemed to me that they spoke neither love towards man, nor 
confidence in the virtue of which he is capable ; for, though 
his contraction of brow appeared natural to him, I always ob- 



2S0 MF CONFESSIONS. 

served it scowled more darkly, when in immediate contact with 
any one of his species. His look then seemed to say — " Never 
wert thou and never wilt thou be any thing of good. Either 
thou art the slave of thy passions or thine heart's self-elected 
idol : but if perchance thou art possessed of some virtue, it is 
like the lightning's flash athwart a darkning sky, serving but to 
render more apparent the horror of those vices which blacken 
thy soul. Thou art, in fact, human — consequently weak 
and despicable !" 

To encounter his gaze seemed to be as it were laying 
bare one's in most soul to the scrutiny of a judge. It was 
difficult to avoid such a feeling, and it always causes a 
shudder. 

His nose was perfectly aquiline. Cheeks, he had none— but 
two deep indentures supplied their place ; while his mouth, in 
which were still ranged two rows of sound teeth, scarcely dis- 
coloured by time, was so capacious, that had not dame nature 
deemed it advisable to limit its extent for the accommodation 
of a couple of ears, it might possibly have formed a circle 
round his head. His chin was of unusual length, and so curled 
at the point, that it resembled the front of a Chinese shoe ; 
while the remainder of his appearance was that of an animated 
skeleton, enveloped in dingy habiliments of the most thread- 
bare texture, and disposed on his scare-crow figure with 
ludicrous irregularity. 

Such was Finzi, the jew, who, during the long course of fifty 
years, had uninterruptedly frequented the " Magliabecana," 
and had yet not formed one. single friendship, or deigned to 
hold intercourse with a living being there. 

Whether it was that this cynic detected in my physiognomy 
that faculty with which the benificent Creator has, so much 
to my own comfort, endowed me — -good will to all mankind— 
or whether it must be ascribed to an unaccountable caprice 
that will befal the most stoical, I cannot pretend to say ; but 
certain it is that, during our proximity at the table, I was the 
only one upon whom he ever raised his eyes. By and by, he 



MY CONFESSIONS. 28 1 

condescended to return my salutation by a slight and almost- 
imperceptible inclination of the head. To me, at length, he 
vouchsafed the sound of his voice, which & 

" Had grown hoarse with silence 5' 

and finally his familiarity extended so far, that, in case of a 
difficulty occurring in my studies, I readily sought his assist- 
ance, and never failed to obtain advice and information from 
this singular being. 

Upon my re- appearance at the Magliabecana, after an absence 
of four years, the jew actually laid down his pen to shake my 
hand ; and muttering a few courteous words of salutation, his 
capacious mouth relaxed into something very like a smile. 
This was the first time he had ever offered his hand to a living 
being : and the first time — to my knowledge — his inflexible 
countenance had attempted to deck itself in the unwonted 
blandishments of a smile. 

Before my departure for Rome, I had acquainted him with 
my intention ; requesting him, at the same time, to inform me 
what were, in his opinion, the objects there most worthy of 
attention. 

" Michael Angelo's Moses \" he had replied, with much more 
enthusiasm than I had ever thought him capable of evincing. 
Upon my return, my first care had been to pourtray the im- 
pression this statue had made upon the feelings of his young 
christian friend. He listened to me in mute attention ; — that 
soul, whose emanations he had so carefully concealed within 
his own heart, now gradually burst forth beaming in ra- 
diant resplendency upon his countenance ; until at length, 
I became convinced that my sentiments were in unison with 
his own, and that now the jew felt more sympathy with 
me than ever. 

Encouraged by this evident disposition in my favour, I 



232 MY CONFESSIONS. 

ventured upon a liberty which formerly I do not think I should 
have dared to take. 

" Now that we are upon a sacred subject/ ' said I to him, 
€< will you permit me to ask you one question ?" 

" Aye; freely. " 

• f You have doubtless read, nay, deeply studied the 
Scriptures !" pursued I. " A talented man, like yourself would 
not turn aside from any track, where there might be a chance 
of gathering flowers by the way, or of acquiring knowledge." 

" You are right : I have read and studied the Scriptures, ex- 
actly as you have supposed/' 

" Having, then, perused the life and doctrines of Jesus 
Christ, how is it possible that you can still persuade yourself 
that he was an impostor, and at the same time adhere to the 
faith of your ancestors by whom He was crucified ? You 
are an old man, I might say a decrepit man ; and though the 
protecting hand of your Maker shields you at present from 
the infirmities which are usually the companions of those ad- 
vanced in years ; yet, earth will very shortly require of you that 
which you owe her, and the passive clay must yield the spirit — 
the essence of a Maker's breath — which was awakened by a 
Deity, and by the act of a Deity can alone expire. When you 
shall have reached that period, do you not fear that, having 
denied Christ, you must have secured your eternal misery in 
the life to come ?" 

" No l" said the jew, laconically. 

" No ? Then must you regard Guido, the christian, eternally 
condemned/' 

« Not so." 

" Impossible! Surely one of us must be fatally wrong on 
this most important subject." 

" Neither you nor myself, nor he who dissents from us 
both !" 

At these words my heart sank within me, for with them had 
vanished the latent hope I had conceived of persuading this 



MY CONFESSIONS. 233 

venerable jew to become a christian ; while, at the next moment, 
a feeling so like disgust took possession of me at his uncon- 
querable heresy, that I was on the point of turning my back ^ 
upon him as irreclaimable, when he, observing my movements, 
anticipated what was passing within my mind : — 

" Stay awhile," he said, retaining me gently by his withered 
hands — " stay awhile, and do not thus harshly give me up for 
lost. Be yourself a christian : but be not unreasonable ; and, 
whilst you still heed the suggestions of your own heart, close 
not your ear to the arguments of others, which, if they fail to 
convince you, will confirm you yet stronger in your own faith, 
and thus will render it yet more triumphant in your own judg- 
ment." 

At these words I paused, and resumed my seat. 

For an instant the jew was lost in reflection. He then took 
a pen. 

" Observe," said he, describing a circle on a piece of card- 
board, " imagine this to be the city of Florence : this a square 
within the centre of the circle, we will suppose the square 
of the Gran Duca.* 

" We will now suppose that by an edict issued by Na- 
poleon, Sovereign of Italy, all the inhabitants of Florence 
are commanded to repair the next day to the Square Gran 
Duca, to swear fealty to Napoleon, before the hour of mid- 
day, upon pain death. Behold, with the dawn, a concourse 
of people congregated at the entrance of the square. They 
are those who tremble lest some unforseen circumstance 
should intercept their timely obedience. Each moment, each 
hour brings with it an increase of multitude, until the clock 
of the square peals forth the eleventh hour. And now again 
observe the square thronged with the less timid aspirants^ 
who had deemed one hour a sufficient anticipation of their 
submission. But one minute more— now one second to the 
proscribed hour — and now behold the last, the proudest in 

* The largest and most remarkable square in the city of Florence* 



234 MY CONFESSIONS. 

their obedience entering the palace gates. Mid- day has 
sounded ! the register has closed ; and admittance is denied 
to every living being — the disobedient are doomed to an 
unmitigated penalty." 

Finzi now looked up in silence, to see if I had understood 
him ; but, observing that I did not appear to have com- 
prehended his allegory, he continued : 

" Do you perceive that all who had repaired to the square, 
not excepting those who were but within a moment of the 
prescribed hour, are received into the favour of the Em- 
peror, and consequently exempted from the penalty of death ?" 

" Doubtless !" 

" You observe also that numerous streets surround the 
square. Here is the " Via de Calzajoli, gli Ufizi, Vacchereccia, 
besides many others, whose name I need not mention to 
you. Now, provided his subjects have obeyed his summons, 
think you it imports to the Emperor, by which of these paths 
they have gained the square ? And thus it is with religion. 
The first principle in each sect is, to acknowledge a Sovereign 
Creator, and Benefactor, and to love and serve Him by 
loving our neighbour. God is the one universal good — 
the Author of every good thing. We look up to Him as 
our only hope ; and that path by which His creatures have 
sought Him, and have striven to render themselves worthy 
of His protection, will by Him be regarded as the right 
road. He is that glorious star, which guideth man direct 
through every road. Guido ! it is not the distinctions of 
religion ; it is man's works which enable or degrade him, 
which separate or attach him to that Being of all goodness 
and all perfection. Suffer me then to continue a faithful 
jew — and remain yourself a good christian. Although you 
are many years younger than myself, it may not be very long 
ere we meet each other in that blessed land where God 
is alike the Father of all His creatures." 

These words made some impression upon my mind. They 
did not, however, shake my reliance upon Christianity as 



MY CONFESSIONS. 235 

the only true religion. I was then too young, and my 
acquaintance with the higher and more solemn ordinances 
of the christian faith was too slight, not be perplexed at 
the large, benevolence, and tolerant spirit, involved in the 
the Jew's sophistry. I took his hand, and bade him adieu, 
with the emotion we experience on taking a last farewell 
of a valued friend. The misanthrope seemed himself moved ; 
it was evident he entertained a regard for the individual he 
was now to part with for ever. But like the lightning's flash 
this feeling vanished from his mind ; for, laying his hand 
gently upon my shoulder, he uttered, " May God be your 
guide !" then turning from me, he seated himself calmly 
at the table, as if nothing had occurred to distract the mo- 
notony of his existence ; and, when I quitted the library, 
I beheld him once more immersed in his huge volume, with 
the same abstracted and studious countenance as ever. 



CHAPTER XIX. 



I had now reached the last scene in the second act of the 
drama of my life. The part I had now to perform, that of solemnly 
exchanging a last farewell with those I most loved on earth — 
was heart-rending in the extreme ; but the die was cast, 
and it became me to meet it as a man, convinced I was 
that it would be as impossible for me to avert it, as it is 
impossible for man to arrest the wheel of fortune, or stay 
the flight of time. 

" Necessity makes e'en the humblest valiant." 

I therefore called to my aid, all the courage with which 
I was endued ; but having become soon aware that even 



236 MY CONFESSIONS. 

that would not avail me much, I then tried to conjure up 
illusions of future happiness — a mental dream that is readily- 
created by the imagination in such a climate as Italy. — Alas ! 
I knew it was but a dream ! 

" Oh ! sweet it is to fly one self— 
To feel oblivion near ! 
A waking dream is life itself, 
Unsullied by a tear !'' 

With a steady gaze, therefore, I fixed my eyes upon that 
flattering mirror, which hope ever presents to the mind of 
youth, when lost in his dreamy anticipations of the future. 
Within its magic reflection, therefore, I beheld myself, after 
the lapse of a very few years, quitting England laden with 
wealth, with honors, and with fame, to return to the land 
of my fathers, there to dwell the friend and support of those 
I best loved. 

I felt now endued with a man's — nay, with a lion's strength, 
and I prepared myself firmly to encounter the sorrow of 
parting, a sorrow which I then likened to the ordeal of passing 
through the infernal regions, in order to attain the gate, whose 
entrance presented the ecstatic prospect of the Elysian Fields. 

But whilst I stood in need of so much illusive support 
to struggle with the sorrow, which seemed ready to overwhelm 
me, Cleofe had recourse to a similar solace, and had indulged 
in the most pleasing anticipation of my future prosperity. 
Blind, therefore, to every object, and with every other feeling 
concentrated in that one hope, she assumed the courage which 
should have been my portion : and, in that moment, which 
she felt to be the most critical to her brother, she placed 
herself at his side invested with the love, the dignity, the 
aspect, the iEgis of Minerva. 

There wanted but a fortnight to the day fixed for my 
departure from Florence, when one beautiful April morning, 
Cleofe and I were returning from a ramble we had taken 



MY CONFESSIONS. 237 

together on the Mura. We had gained a point, from which 
we could enjoy the best view of the magnificent cupola of 
Brunellesco. This is by far the highest structure in Florence ; 
yet it rather seems to confer an additional grace upon the 
inferior buildings, than to tower above them in triumph ; 
thus resembling the majestic oak, which adds beauty to, while 
it protects and shelters, the thousand tender plants, that bloom 
beneath the shade of its magnificent branches. 

" Do you observe that splendid miracle of art, Cleofe ?" 
exclaimed I as, without regarding her countenance, I stood in 
deep contemplation of the object before us. " Alas ! with what 
different feelings do I now look upon it, now that I am about to 
quit it — for heaven knows how long — to those with which I 
contemplated it, when, upon my return from Leghorn, I heard 
my father exclaim, ' Guido, there is the cupola !' — Cleofe ! 
do you remember that scene I have so often recounted 
to you, though, perhaps, never in the sombre hues of reality ? 
To-day, that cupola is as much the object of my love, as 
it was then of my hate. In man's limited sphere of existence, 
so dependent is he upon the sympathy of his fellow-creatures, 
that when it fails him, Spring blooms not for him in its 
sweet and freshening verdure, Life, is but a mournful and 
wearying race : the Sun, beams not on him its vivifying 
power, and the Moon, is no longer Cynthia but Proserpine. 
Oh how sad must feel the heart of a man who is compelled 
to exclaim with Moses, " / am a stranger in a strange land ! y> 
Having been for two years encompassed with the affection, and 
the esteem of my Florentine countrymen, this delicious abode 
seems to me invested with so celestial a beauty, that, I fear 
in quitting it, objects similar to those which are here so grate- 
ful to my senses, will lose their charm when beheld on other 
shores. The rose will not possess for me its fragrance or 
its lovely hues ; the evening star will never look so lustrous ; 
and I shall never again feel equal delight in gazing upon the 
serene azure of the sky." 

" Not so, Guido/' replied Cleofe quickly, but with firmness; 



238 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" beautiful as Florence appears to you now, its merits will be 
increased in your estimation by absence. In such a world as 
our own, which admits not of perfection, distance has the power 
of sanctifying the defects, which familiar association always 
makes so apparent to us. Your affectionate devotion to the 
noble and beautiful place of your nativity, will doubtless ope- 
rate in your mind most beneficially, by constantly presenting to 
your contemplation, a high standard of moral and intellectual 
excellence, and will be a powerful stimulus in urging you to 
advance in that career which will, at the same time, do honour 
to yourself and to your country. Remember that in taking 
the proud title of " Guido of Florence/' your aspirations and 
conduct henceforward must prove you worthy of the appellation. 

"A separation from those we love, draws us nearer to our 
Creator, and concentrates our affections in Him. This He 
Himself knows ; and thus it is, that He frequently condemns 
His elect to a separation from the worldly objects of their love. 
An inevitable chain of circumstances — the will of Heaven — 
compel you thus, a second time, to fly from the arms of you 
relations. It will be in vain to expect from strangers the love 
we hare borne you ! At a distance, we shall seem more ne- 
cessary to you than were you with us ; and amid the crowd 
that will surround you, then will our loss 6e more apparent to 
your heart ! But, Guido ! after the first tears of solitude and 
abandonment, you will turn to Him — you will seek Him, 
who causes us to weep, that we may rejoice hereafter. But a 
very brief period, dear Guido, and we shall all be re-united in 
Him, a union unembittered by the remembrance of the short, 
but painful separation in this world. 

"In whatever position it may have pleased Providence to place 
us, it is a weakness natural to human nature, to extract some- 
thing from its association, at which we must repine, while from 
the extravagance of our selfishness, we exaggerate our own 
sufferings. That they are sometimes vast I deny not, but even 
then, we find their augmentation in our own discontent. There is 
but one method by which we may alleviate or diminish them ; 



MY CONFESSIONS. 239 

that is, by relying firmly upon God. In that confidence, man 
is freed from the power of his own passions ; from the preju- 
diced judgment of his fellow- creatures ; from the terrors of an 
unprepared death ; from the remorse ever attendant upon unli- 
censed pleasures ; finally from the gloomy dread of eternal 
condemnation. 

" Grieve no more, then, dear Guido ; but enter courageously 
upon the career which God has pointed out to you. So confident 
do I feel in His succour, that I know He hath thus called you to 
vour good, if not in this world, in that which is to come : and 5 
in that happy consciousness, I am enabled to withdraw from 
you the hand which has been ever ready to assist you, and to 
resign you cheerfully to His single protection." 

" Divine sister," I could not forbear exclaiming, " what a 
mind is your's ! What soul the most fearful could listen to you 
without feeling itself braced into courage by such inspiration ? 
you are like that warm and genial ray, which amid the rigour 
of a January's frost, assures man that a spring sun will shortly 
return to cheer him once more ! Your's is the hand which pours 
the oil of light and life into the nearly expiring lamp ! You 
are the right hand of friendship — that guardian angel of man ! 
You are in fine, dear Cleofe, that which woman can alone be 
in a world of trials and sorrow. 



CHAPTER XX. 



What a strange receptacle of every possible contradictory 
feeling is the human heart ! 

On reaching the door of our residence, Cleofe exclaimed 
abruptly to me, •' Guido, I have a favour to request of you : it 
is, that you will take me with you to Lucca. In the society of 
our friends there, I think I may find it less difficult to part 



240 MY CONFESSIONS. 

with you than at Florence — the home of our childhood, sanc- 
tified by so many painful yet fond associations I" 

As she uttered these words, a shade of sorrow clouded her 
brow, and at once discovered that the firmness which had just 
before dictated her words of encouragement to me, had sprung 
merely from the temporary excitement of an exalted spirit, and 
that in reality, Cleofe's was but a woman's heart. 

" Your plan is most excellent, dearest Cleofe !" I replied, 
arming myself with an assumed strength, and conjuring up a 
smile in order to allay her anguish. Alas ! what calmness did my 
smile pourtray! yet it was but the mere mechanical movement of 
the lips, not unlike that of the poor maniac, who from between 
the gratings of his cell, smiles vacantly upon the passers-by, 
when either from curiosity or compassion, they stop to gaze 
upon his wretchedness. 

Oh existence ! what a fearful penalty is thine, which com- 
pels us to dissimulate with those even who are the nearest to 
our affections ! Wert thou not the brief passage to a tearless 
immortality, thy state would seem to be more like the sulphu- 
reous offering of the unblessed to the spirit of darkness, than a 
propitiating incense to the Creator ! 

t( To-morrow at the hour you like to fix upon, we will quit 
Florence for Lucca then, dear Cleofe !" resumed I. 

At this suggestion, the cloud suddenly passed away from 
Cleofe's brow, and her eyes radiant with a sister's affection, 
beamed like the returning rays of the sun when after the tempest 
has passed, it sinks slowly with resplendent glory below the 
horizon. 

The next morning we accordingly commenced our journey 
to Lucca, where we arrived towards evening. 

Although we had not been expected by our friends, our 
unlooked for arrival, however, obtained for us a cordial 
welcome. Whether it was my intended journey to England 
that caused them to fear this might be the last time they 
would see me, or whether they were merely gratified that I 
should make them my personal adieux previously to quitting 



MY CONFESSIONS. 241 

Italy, is a question I cannot determine. Suffice it to say, my 
eight weeks' sojourn with them, were indeed festive days. 

My friends seemed anxious to make each pleasure succeed 
the other with rapid variety. And if the last were not more 
exquisite than that which preceded it, at least it was not in- 
ferior, and had always some unexpected charm. 

But it was reserved for Cleofe to dispose the tints of the 
last day of my visit, which she arranged in so harmonious 
a manner, that the effect upon my mind was similar to 
that produced when contemplating the cheering and refreshing 
hues of the rainbow, to which the memory clings more fondly 
than to the intenser glory of the sun. 

She had prepared a breakfast in the palace of the Lucchesi 
family, with whom we were staying. To this, she had in- 
vited all our friends and acquaintances at Lucca. 

When the repast was over, we all repaired to the cathedral, 
where was to be celebrated, that morning, the festival of 
one of our saints, and where we knew we should hear 
some fine music. 

How often have I subsequently wished, that, instead of 
the multiplicity of images of the Virgin and various supposed 
saints, which adorn the walls of the catholic temples, serving 
only to distract the attention of the worshippers, and pre- 
senting to their contemplation things and associations con- 
nected with material existence, in their room I could behold 
the single image of the Redeemer, and but one altar to 
the glory of God. What a sacrilege is that, when an altar 
is raised to the honor of imagined saints, whilst David and 
Peter were pronounced to be sinners ! 

But, on the other hand, that music should have been for- 
bidden in some christian protestant churches, when it was 
by music from above that the nativity was announced to 
the shepherds, is surely the remnant of a barbarous spirit.* 

* Should any protestant be disposed to refute my assertion, by 
stating that psalms and hymns are sung in their churches, I can 

M 



243 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Mass concluded, our party repaired to the house of a 
friend who had preceded us thither to give us welcome. We 
entered the parlour, and assembled round a table elegantly 
provided with refreshments ornamented with flowers. Having 
each partaken slightly of the sumptuous fare, and kept up 
a gay and animated conversation, the host, whose glass was 
yet untouched, rose from his seat, and with an audible voice, 
pronounced: " Viva il Signor Guido." At these words, a 
magnificent burst of music struck up from the adjoining 
apartment. This had been a concerted project amongst my 
friends, some time before ; and for this purpose, those whose 
musical skill called upon them to take a share in the per- 
formance, had disappeared a little before from the room, to 
await the signal. The door of the apartment now flew open : 
we all entered and took possession of our seats. 

The selection of music was in exquisite taste. Nothing 
mournful was permitted to form part of the performance, if 
I except an adagio that I myself requested Cleofe to improvise. 

My sister w^as celebrated, not only amongst her Florentine 
friends, for her excellent piano-forte playing, but the most 
distinguished professors from remote parts of Europe eagerly 
sought for an opportunity of hearing her when visiting 
Florence. The delight 1 experienced in listening to the de- 
licious effects, produced by her, when improvising on this 

only reply, that to their adaptation of psalmody, I am at a loss how to 
give the name of music ; while equally impossible do I find it to term 
that singing, which consists in the untuneable shout of the poor little 
objects of charity who are the principal performers; and at the same 
time, if I acknowledge that when hearing the united voices or fifteen 
or twenty thousand of these little songsters at St. Paul's, I have 
found it impossible to refrain from tears, I must acknowledge them 
to spring rather from admiration at the holy intention implied by 
this congregation of little children in pouring out their thanksgiving 
to God, rather than from the harmony they attempt to produce ? I 
feel a pleasure in doing homage to the generosity of the English, in thus 
clothing, feeding and providing a christian education for so many des- 
titute children. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 243 

fascinating instrument, was too intense for me ever to forget 
— it is equally impossible for me to do it justice in attempting 
to describe it. Disclaiming any undue partiality in my esti- ,v 
mate of her skill, as being my sister, I do not hesitate to 
declare, that, in my opinion, there is no living performer who 
can transcend, or, perhaps, even approach Cleofe, in giving a 
deep soul-moving effect to an adagio. 

Although the character of her improvvisazione on this oc- 
casion, was of a serious cast, as an adagio properly should 
be, it bespoke not a mournful sadness. Her strain was like 
the organ's peal, which exalts the christian's soul to a sen- 
timent of love, and confidence. At the sound of her notes, 
the tear sprang to the eye, from the fullness of the heart : 
it was, however, a tear of resignation, of hope, and trust ! 

At the conclusion of the concert, we all repaired to the 
Mura of Lucca. These walls are one of the wonders of Italy. 
They are so elevated, that from their heights the whole city 
and the cultivated and charming country around, are visible. 
Their breadth admits of four rows of carriages, without 
inconveniencing the promenaders in the least; they are as 
smooth and level as the aisles of the Vatican; while the 
luxuriant trees, which tower magnificently on either side, 
compete with those which adorn the Stradone delle Cascine, 
at Florence. 

After a delightful promenade, we returned home to dinner 
at the Lucchesi palace. 

Coffee, music and conversation followed ; in the mean 
time, no allusion was made to my future journey, in order 
to avoid lessening the enjoyment of that happy day. 

Evening at length closed in ; and then a numerous company 
of amiable and distinguished guests poured into the ball, 
which my friend had so unexpectedly prepared in my honor. 

The fascination of the music ; the illuminated saloon ; the 
captivating beauty of the women, whose aspect at once com- 
manded respect and admiration ; these delights, heightened 



544 MY CONFESSIONS, 

by the flattering associations connected with the scene, exer- 
cised so powerful a sway upon me, that my whole existence 
seemed concentrated in that hour — the past and the future 
were alike forgotten and uncared for. 

But, alas ! how surely do the brief enjoyments of this world 
terminate in darkness and sorrow ! Man tastes happiness 
for a moment, only to become more sensible to the inevitable 
anguish that succeeds it. How long and dreary a twilight 
waits upon youth's ephemeral sunshine ; while the more 
lengthened become its shadows, the heavier is our regret for 
the departed rays of the sun. If from the dream of love and 
friendship — that sweet succour of the heart amidst the whirl- 
wind of existence — we are fortunately enough not awakened 
suddenly by the rude hand of treachery and faithlessness, 
nevertheless a long contact with the world will surely present 
to us the cruel reality, which will disenchant the idol we 
had set up for worship. If such beings can be found, in 
whom these feelings have bloomed fresh and unwithered, even 
until the moment when the icy touch of the fell destroyer 
pronounces their earthly separation, they are few indeed ! 
They are more scanty than the leaves, which, in Italy's 
smiling meadows, preserve their verdure, amidst the chill 
of winter, around the oak, even until the coming spring ; 
they are, when compelled to surrender to earth her rightful 
spoils, descending spontaneously and gently into its parent- 
bosom to give place to the infant generation, which shoots 
forth and blooms in their stead ! 

What is happiness in this world but the absence of pain 
and sorrow ? We are conscious of the value of health, only after 
having experienced the infirmities of nature, and from the dread 
of their recurrence. We delight in the presence of a beloved 
object, in proportion as we feel alarm at the "very idea of his 
loss. We feel a charm in contemplating the serenity of 
the firmament from having previously beheld it agitated 
with tempests, and from the anticipation of their repetition 
We enjoy the ocean's calm infinitely more, when contrasting 



MY CONFESSIONS. 245 

it with that fearful turbulence, in which the wrathful wave 
seems to wage fierce battle with the mighty winds of heaven. 

The eleventh hour sounded: the company separated; and^ 
I conducted Cleofe to the house of the Marchesa Bernardini, 
who had invited her to pass some weeks with her. 

Cleofe had taken my arm ; but during our progress from 
the house of festivity we had just quitted, to the Bernardini 
palace, she had not uttered one word. It was the speaking 
silence of sorrow ! 

We soon reached the door of the palace, and the deep 
bell pealed through the avenue. 

" Dear Cleofe !" I exclaimed, with a painful effort, " we 
must now part 1" 

" Not here, not here!" said Cleofe, in a tone of great 
agitation, " I am not yet prepared ! Let us enter the house, 
Guido, la Marchesa w r ould see you once more before you quit 
us for ever !" 

I felt as though my heart would break. But inured to the 
sacrifice of all that was dear to me, I prepared myself for 
the trial ; and, in this last moment,- 1 endeavoured, though 
but for a moment, to invest myself with becoming firmness 
for the encounter. Accordingly, pressing the hand of Cleofe 
in silence, I was about to repeat to her a second farewell, the 
moment the door should open. — But in vain; Cleofe had 
guessed my purpose, and now throwing her arm round my 
neck, she kissed me as she uttered in a tone of anguish : 

" Will you not go w T ith me up stairs ?" 

" I will," I replied, conscious, at the same moment, that my 
boasted resolution had degenerated into weakness. 

We ascended the staircase. 

According to a previously concerted arrangement between 
la Marchesa and Cleofe, a large party had already assembled 
to a splendid supper at the Bernardini palace. 

When we entered the saloon, la Marchesa advanced to 
meet us. She perceived tears in the eyes of Cleofe, who had 
previously promised to exert all her heroism at our parting, 



246 MY CONFESSIONS. 

in order that I, equally dear to them both, and possessing, 
perhaps, less strength of mind than either, might imitate her 
example of firmness. 

" Shame, shame on thee ! dear Cleofe !" she uttered in 
a low tone of voice, at the same time applying her handkerchief 
to the eyes of her friend, and concealing both the action 
and her rebuke from the thronging assembly, by a prolonged 
and graceful embrace. 

Suppressing her emotion, Cleofe once more resumed cou- 
rage, and the usual serenity of her manner. 

" Signora Cieofina, do improvise on the piano-forte !" 
exclaimed at the same moment several voices from the joyous 
assembly. 

" What shall be the subject?" said Cleofe, seating herself 
at the instrument. 

It was generally suggested that the Marchesa should pro- 
pose a theme for Cleofe's improvisation. 

" The safe return of our Guido from England /" eagerly 
exclaimed the Marchesa. 

" Evviva ! evviva!" burst from the whole company. " The 
safe return of our Signor Guido from England 1" 

At the first note of this exquisite musician, the most 
breathless stillness prevailed. The first movement improvised 
by Cleofe at once bespoke her intention to address a 
prayer to the Most High, imploring Him to watch over and 
protect her brother in the foreign land, in which he was 
about to sojourn. The second movement was of a mixed 
character, alternately gay and pensive : it was intended to 
represent an epitome of human life, composed as it is of some 
few hours of sunshine with many more of darkness. At 
the conclusion of this movement, the audience could no 
longer suppress their admiration, and the echo of their applause 
responded from every corner of the palace. 

To this flattering, yet merited testimony of approbation, 
Cleofe remained for some moments insensible, pre- occupied 
by deep feeling, and unconscious of external circumstance. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 24? 

Then, resuming her performance, in a strain so exalted that 
she seemed to soar above herself, she proceeded to pourtray my 
existence henceforward, by notes expressive of life's turbulent 
and overwhelming tempests, but which she seemed to augur 
were to be succeeded by an ultimate long and happy calm ! 

Never had I heard Cleofe improvise with more success. 
Each sentiment of her exalted mind seemed that evening 
awakened into action, and through the medium of music's 
heavenly language, she called forth feelings, for the expression 
of which, words would have been insufficient. 

The banquet that followed was all that was gay and de- 
sirable. Cleofe alone was mute and abstracted. The hour 
of actual separation having at length arrived, she first rose 
from the table, and preceded me to the apartment which 
had been prepared for her. 

I remained to make my adieux to the Marchesa and her 
guests, each of whom had a thousand kind and sincere wishes 
to offer me. 

This having been accomplished, I repaired to Cleofe' s 
chamber. 

Upon my re- appearance before her, she burst into a 
torrent of tears, betokening the anguish of her mind. 

" There will be no more happiness for me, Guido, when you 
have parted from me!" she exclaimed; " but God's will be 
done ! and I will henceforth learn to love only that which He 
loveth, and to will that which He wiileth." 

" At a distance from Guido," she continued, " my soul 
will ever be a prey to disquiet and anxiety ! but God will 
know my grief, and in that consciousness I shall be con- 
tent. There is a calm, dear Guido, which I have often 
experienced in my sorrow, and that is the blessed peace which 
attends us to the cross. It is by a long train of circumstances, 
that our Creator weans us from our affection to the creature, 
and finally from ourselves. The operation is gradual, and 
often most painful ; but God wounds us not for His pleasure. 
He tears asunder our dearest earthly ties but to animate us to 



248 MY CONFESSIONS. 

a love for our friends, purer, more lasting and more spiritual ; 
and to secure us hereafter eternal joy in His bosom, and a 
happiness a thousand times more perfect than we ever here 
knew how to desire. 

" Go then, dear Guido ! commence your auspicious journey. 
Be steady ! be virtuous ! Virtue is every thing ! wherever 
you may be she will supply the place of country, riches, 
sister and friends ! Virtue, Guido ! I have often heard 
you say, is the pure ore in the mine : it is the pearl in 
its shell : it is the presence of God — it is the heart's paradise ! 
Do not take it ill, Guido, that a sister who loves you, 
and who is your superior in years, now presumes to repeat 
that which she first heard and learned from your own lips. 
How painful a moment is this ! existence can never present 
its equal — existence which imposes upon us two kinds of death, 
a separation from those we love, and the separation of the 
soul from the body ! Farewell, we may never meet again !" 

At these words Cleofe's countenance became blanched with 
emotion. She threw her arm around my neck, and I supporting 
her pallid but expressive face upon my shoulders, imprinted 
upon it the kiss of fraternal affection — that true spiritual love, 
so holy, so celestial in its nature, which alone will outlive 
the limits of our worldly existence ; if indeed it be permitted 
in a future state, that we shall be conscious of any other 
love than that for our Creator in whom alone — I must 
believe — will be concentrated every affection, which had so 
brightened our pilgrimage on earth. 

In this posture she remained for some moments, until, 
at length, I became sensible that she leaned heavier and 
heavier upon my shoulder, and bending gently to look upon 
her, I saw she had fainted. 

This sorrowful spectacle, though at the distance of fifteen 
years, is so painfully fresh in my memory, that its recollection 
fills me with anguish. At the moment of its occurrence, 
I was so paralized as to be scarcely conscious of what I 
did ; gently disengaging myself from her affectionate embrace, 



MY CONFESSIONS. 249 

I bore her senseless form to a sofa which stood in the 
apartment. 

Silently I knelt beside her, and taking that hand which, 
was unable to return the pressure of mine, I raised my heart 
— not my voice, for words I had not — to the Most High, 
praying Him to accept the sacrifice I was about to make 
to Him of her dear presence, and recommending to His pro- 
tection with all my soul, that object of my purest affections. 

Once more I pressed that passive hand to my lips, and 
placed it upon her heart : then standing up, and ringing 
the bell violently, I rushed from the apartment. 

The Marchesa Bernardini was the first who encountered 
me upon hearing the summons. 

" Signora Marchesa," I had just power to utter, " Cleofe 
has fainted. To your care I resign her. When she revives, 
should she ask for me, say that I left her in a state of uncon- 
sciousness, in order to spare us both the agony of another 
farewell — the infliction of such another fearful blow !" 

The Marchesa made no reply : but, with tears in her 
eyes, she pressed my hand with emotion to her heart, and 
walked hastily to Cleofe's apartment, whilst I, opening the 
hall-door, hastily rushed from the house. 

I returned to the Lucchesi palace. 

That estimable family quickly surrounded me, offering all 
the consolation their affection could suggest. However sub- 
dued by misery, the heart will ever prove accessible to a 
feeling of gratitude for the tear we see silently offered as a 
tribute to our sorrow ; and for the half uttered word of sym- 
pathy with our affliction, even when it should be too great 
to admit of consolation. 

At this moment my ear caught the sound of the hall bell ; 
and in the next, a courier from the Marchesa Bernardinf 
entered the apartment. 

The man presented me with a note, saying at the same 
time in a respectful tone, " The Signora Cleofe has recovered, 

m S 



250 MY CONFESSIONS. 

and the Marchesa sends you her compliments." When he 
retired, I eagerly opened the note. 

" Guido, dearer than ever ! 

" Thus, Guido, I may now address you in the style adopted 
by your Zuricher friend ; for if, before this moment, I only 
imagined you dear to me, now do I feel you are indeed so, and 
will become dearer to me than ever. 

" Through the kind attention of the Marchesa, I was res- 
tored to consciousness a few moments after you had quitted 
the palace. Alas ! Guido, I had vainly dreamed myself su- 
perior to my sex, and had thought that in parting from 
you, I should be able to encourage you to firmness by my 
example, and have proved myself free from the shadow of 
a feminine weakness ; but when I should have crowned the 
effort which had hitherto supported me so successfully to 
the close of my triumph, I proved myself but a woman. 

" Thus much for the vain assumption of a strength which 
belongs not to our nature ! 

" Yet, Guido, thanks to the cultivation of those sentiments 
by which we have together been led to worship the Creator, 
it is consoling to me to assure you, that such is my faith 
in Him, that I would not alter one iota in our present con- 
dition ; and that though the clouds may for awhile darken 
thy horizon, the hope is in my heart, that the light will 
one day disperse them ; and that He who hath separated 
you from your country and your friends, will Himself watch 
over your safety. 

" Should our separation be perpetual in this life, to the 
close of my existence, you will ever be accompanied by 
the prayers — by the love of 

" YOUR CLEOFE. 1 ' 

This letter, read aloud to me by Annina Lucchesi, to whom 



MY CONFESSIONS. 251 

I had given it after breaking its seal, inspired me with re" 
newed consolation. 

My sister's noble sentiments, delivered by the sweet voice of^ 
Annina, awakened within me a courage, of which indeed, 
I at this moment stood much in need ; so that, instantly 
shaking off my lethargy, I rose from my seat, and embracing 
the dear friends who surrounded me ; with a tearless eye 
I pronounced my last adieu to them. 

Yes ! with a tearless eye ! Life had no longer for me any 
thorn, whose wound had power to send the heart's tear 
to the eye* Separated as I was from her, the dearest of 
friends at Zurich, and now, at Lucca, from the most cherished 
of sisters, I felt that every other separation would be but 
a trifling encounter ; and though I had still to bid adieu 
to the most beloved of parents, the cheering consciousness that 
I quitted him but to ensure, more effectually, his support 
and comfort in the trying hour of age and infirmity, would 
lighten the darkness of that moment, or at least weigh no 
heavier upon my soul, than that we experience at the sad- 
dening hour of twilight, after a festive day resplendent with 
the glory of the sun. 



CHAPTER XXI. 



I returned to Florence, where I remained but three days, 
previously to my journey to London. Upon the second day, I 
invited my most intimate friends to a collation upon the 
Cupola del Domo. It was the 30th April, 1821. At three 
o'clock p.m. we had all ascended the stupendous Cupola, 
from whose summit nearly every house in Florence can be 
distinctly seen, together with the charming gardens attached 
to each dwelling, and from whence may be traced the course of 



252 MY CONFESSIONS*, 

the Arno, separating the magnificent city from the adjacent 
mountains ; presenting together such a prospect for the imagi- 
native contemplation, that, in gazing upon it, man can hardly 
assure himself that that ground is accursed, in common with the 
rest of the Earth — that death walks there — or that the Eden 
which God had given to man to inhabit and enjoy, when 
he first issued spotless and beautiful from the creative hands 
of Perfection, could have surpassed that one little spot of 
the beautiful country, which 

" Part the lofty Apennines — by Alps and sea environ'd." 

To repeat all the kind and friendly things my ^friends 
uttered ; the happy auguries with which they brightened those 
three blissful hours in which I beheld them for the last time ; 
the jests, the pungent remarks, the wit in which my talented 
companions indulged in unrestrained gaiety ; would be robbing 
my heart of a treasure, which still has the power to enliven 
me after the lapse of so many years. 

Before descending from the Cupola, rendered so dear to 
me by many interesting associations, I raised my eyes and 
my soul to heaven, and imprinted a kiss upon an adjacent 
small marble column, which a succeeding tear as instantly 
obliterated. 

Oh life of misery ! oh world of sorrow ! we are born 
but to love ! and we love but to lose ! 



CHAPTER XXII. 



The sun had risen to illumine the last day that I was 
destined to behold in my own Florence. 

" The last I" Pellico will exclaim, " but how are you assured, 
my friend, it is your lot never to re- visit your native Florence ?" 



MY CONFESSIONS. 253 

I do deeply feel the conviction. Seldom does man's heart 
deceive him, when it speaks to him of misfortune ! Mine, 
whispers to me, that never again shall I behold my own | 
Florence, and, though now in the vigour of my existence, 
I dare predict that my eyes w T ill never again be blessed by the 
sight of the Beautiful City. 

This day was passed entirely amongst my friends and ac- 
quaintances, all of whom, high in hope for the success of 
my voyage to England, parted without a tear from Guido, 
who had ever been the main -spring of their most pleasurable 
moments when together — from him, whom their superstitious 
affection had almost erected into an idol, invested with the halo 
of perfection, rather than with the attributes of frail mortality 
which w T ere in reality so decidedly his own I 

My father's demeanour on this occasion was marked by 
great cheerfulness — I might almost say hilarity. He was 
evidently excited by the most sanguine hopes of my success. 
It certainly appears strange, that after seventy-five years of dis- 
appointment — at that age which resents every change, and 
which abounds alone in complaint — the human heart should 
still be susceptible of the bright impulses of hope i It is another 
of those mysterious contradictions in nature, that I, at least, 
could never comprehend. 

It was an hour after midnight when I retired to my apart- 
ment. 

I had then to complete the preparations for my departure, 
which was to take place at six o'clock on the following 
morning. 

The finale of my melancholy task was to deposit upon my 
little table the key of the house, of which I had been the ex- 
clusive possessor until now. 

At this last, though simple, action, I could no longer refrain 
from tears. I sat down, and wept like a child. The recol- 
lection of it even now brings tears into my eyes. 

" Farewell to thee, too," I exclaimed, apostrophising this 



2 54 MY CONFESSIONS. 

cherished memento, " the dear medium by which for the last 
two years I was admitted into this temple of friendship, of 
independence, of true affection ! In surrendering thee, I be- 
come once more a wanderer and an exile — and once more con- 
demned to feel that 

" Unpalateable is the bread, 

When offer'd by a stranger's hand, 
And dark the path whose egress led 
Through windings 'mid a foreign strand." 

But I feel assured that the more entangled the path is, in 
which it may please Providence to place me, the more sensible 
I shall become of the paternal hand, whose invisible and mira- 
culous power will guide, direct and support me ! 

The feelings awakened by the last words of this mental 
ejaculation restored me to peace — to resignation, and renewed 
courage. 

Having closed my valise, nothing now seemed left for me to 
do, but to seek repose for the few hours of my stay. A sudden 
impulse determined me, however, to employ them, as I had 
done those on the eve of my departure from Zurich, in prayer, 
and in reflection. 

I prayed fervently — I thought deeply ! — and at day-break, 
when my kind father entered my apartment with a cup of 
coffee, exclaiming — 

" Guido ! beheld your first valet awakening you between this 
and London 5" 

I found that, besides prayer and reflection, my mind had 
been employed during the night in another vocation. 

" Already stirring, Guido !" exclaimed my father, surprised 
at seeing me seated at my table. 

" Yes," I replied, taking from his hand the welcome 
beverage, " and net only stirring, but, to prove to you how 
busily I have been occupied, here are several verses, which, 



MY CONFESSIONS. 255 

should they meet your approbation, will ever be dear to my re- 
membrance/ ' 

" Read them to me," he exclaimed, seating himself near ^ 
me, with a smib which suddenly irradiated his noble and ex- 
pressive features. 

I then read — or rather, declaimed the following 



ADIEU TO ITALY ! 



Forth issued from thy blest abode ! hail night ! 
Deep, calm, serene, and roVd in starry light ! 
Thou walk'st the world, to usher in the day 
Whose waking dawn must greet me far away. 

Hail night I in thy still bosom thou dost bear, 
If not the sun's — light's promise circling there ! 
Hail night ! whose shrouding veil doth kindly close 
For me the darkest eve existence knows. 

Exiled from home, and from her kindly hearts, 
Amid a world, which, like the tree,* imparts 
No smiling blossom from its sterile breast, 
But coldly shrin'd within its leafy nest, 

Henceforth to me thy shades alone seem bright, 
Thy silence, harmony — my soul's sole light ! 
For thou, sweet Florence, having lost thee now, 
No other loss can e'er my spirit bow ! 

When each fair earthly joy hath taken wing, 
When sated grief can plant no other sting, 
The heart's pale worm, now powerless become, 
Drops withering off, to seek another home. 



The plane-tree, which produces no fruit. 



25 6 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Oh beauteous eve ! oh sweet Italian night ! 
Soft emanating from thy starry light, 
Thy dark-eyed sons reflect thy borrowed beams, 
The silent mirrors of their souls high dreams ! 

For me thy glitt'ring stars, thy silver moon 
Must now for ever set — alas ! how soon ! 
Oh ! in my first next step I darkly view 
My country's, father's, e'en my soul's adieu ! 

I feel I all have lost with thee, sweet land ! 
But, what art thou, that with celestial hand, 
Of form untangible, yet still a form, 
That seems to beckon me amid the storm ? 

Thou art from Heav'n, although in mortal dress, 
And human love doth woo thy loveliness ! 
Yet still the arm that thee had fondly prest 
Thou dost return upon an aching breast. 

Thou art the anchor seldom known to fail, 
To which the bark will cling amid the gale]! 
Thou art a star, so bright in majesty, 
That clouds dare not enshroud thy native sky ! 

The sweetest blossom in thy early doom, 
The infant foretaste of maturer bloom ; 
To see thee once, to feel thy gentle sway, 
Awakens within the soul its holiday ! 

Some name thee as the willow ever-green, 
From whose cold breast nor fiow'r nor fruit are seen ! 
But, wert thou thus, thou never thus would seem 
The fairest object of man's waking dream ! 

The vine luxuriant sheltered from the gale, 
Enclosed within its soft, its leafy pale 
In after times with clustring grapes to bow, 
Unharmed by cloud or heat — yes, such art thou ! 

The heavier grief assails the human heart, 
The brighter thou dost sit with soothing art! 
The shrinking soul awakes to wider scope, 
And man doth name his guardian spirit — hope ! 



MY CONFESSIONS. 2 57 

Oh ! then, sweet hope ! deceiver thou mayst be, 
A willow— phantom — still I follow thee ! 
No shadow yet can deem thy glorious beams 
Which spread a halo round my youthful dreams. 

Tho' on a sea of dark'ning troubles tost, 

My soul its dearest ties for ever lost, 

Yet, thou dost wake my heart's last ling'ring smile, 

And by thy rainbow hues my soul beguile. 

Encircling years the story will narrate 
Of that thou art ! — the future will relate 
If thou art hope — the true — the certain good ! 
The ark's fair dove — or raven of the flood ? 

Arno farewell ! Fair Florence, thou, adieu, 
Sweet cradle, whence my spotless childhood grew ; 
Farewell, blest land ! upon whose language hung 
A harmony now lost in stranger tongue !* 

In chains , where thou hast dwelt the world's bright queen ! 

A prostrate captive, where thy reign hath been 3 

No longer gems entwine thy lofty brow, 

Nor thrones thy willing footstool prostrate bow ! 

But, though thy wreath of conquest be effaced, 
And man usurps the throne thou once hast gracM, 
He cannot check the gift fond nature makes, 
Nor crush the flow'r thy kindly parent wake3. 

Oh Italy! Thou garden of the world! 

Heav'ns sweetest breath is erer thee gently curled ! 

The softest zephirs fan thy fruitful breast, 

To woo from thee Heaven's gifts, the choicest — best ! 

Thy soil abundant, thy luxuriant bow'rs, 
O'er which the frown of Heav'n so rarely low'rs, 
Bright beauty's palm is stamp'd as thy award 
By Him, of light and heat, the sovereign Lord I 

* In allusion to the base German dialect spoken by the Austrians who 
swarm Lombardy. 



258 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Tho' selfish tyranny may vainly try 
To spoil thee with its deep-tongued blasphemy, 
It cannot mar the beauty Heav'n bestows, 
Nor wake to war, when God proclaims repose ! 

Of stern rapacity, of impious pow'r 
Thou art the struggling victim of the hour ! 
But He, who guides the stern career of life, 
Can stay — in His own time — the bitter strife ! 

Country, farewell ! I quit thee with a tear, 
Not that thy charms alone have made thee dear ; 
But that I leave thee struggling with a foe, 
Whose mad ambition pants to lay thee low ! 

But, bearrtSQus soil ! though impotence may try 
To crush thee with its selfish tyranny, 
By Heav'n adjudged, by more than mortal hate 
'Twill meet a tyrant's — not a sov'reign's fate ! 

To fill some vast, some equable design, 
Too high for mortal wisdom to divine, 
God suffers innocence oppress'd to dwell, 
Like thou the lamb amid a tiger's cell ! 

But virtue, Italy ! is from above, 
And e'er reflects its earthly sister's love, 
While sleepless justice, ever watchful, springs 
To do her Maker's will— the King of Kings ! 

Sweet land, adieu ! Oh yield not to a fate 
Whose conquest makes a lesser triumph great ! 
Obscur'd, each star may for a while decline 
Again to rise, and more resplendant shine ! 



Words are insufficient to depict the effect each succeeding 
stanza produced upon my father, who sat listening to me in 
breathless silence — a silence much more eloquent than loud 
applause » 



MY CONFESSIONS. 259 

At the conclusion of the stanza beginning, 

" But though thy wreath of conquest be effac'd," 

the good old man raised his eyes to Heaven, uttering the 
heartfelt ejaculation — " Oh bless thee ! bless thee !" He could 
say no more. 

At the last stanza, he threw his arms around my neck, and 
holding me there for a few moments, wept tears of affectionate 
delight rather than sorrow. 

" Yes," he exclaimed, " the cloud will pass away sooner 
from the horizon of my dutiful and affectionate son, than will 
days of brightness and prosperity gladden our cherished 
country. Dear Guido, be assured by the parting words of an 
approving parent, that your lot will be calm, contented and 
honoured. 

He then resumed his wonted firmness, wiped the tear from 
his cheek, and said gaily, " Come, Guido ! arrange your things 
as quickly as possible, and join me in the breakfast room." 

My wardrobe being already arranged, a very brief toilette 
was sufficient for the " great traveller," who was now about to 
perform so long a journey. The dear old man had already 
prepared breakfast for me in the little apartment adjoining my 
own, which I have elsewhere described as my study. 

It was five o'clock when I entered ; and the morning's sun 
streaming brilliantly into it, made it indeed like a treasure in 
my eyes. My father was alone, and seated at the head of the 
table. He had that morning habited himself in a holiday cos- 
tume, in honour, no doubt, of his dear Guido. 

" Come, Guido," he exclaimed as I entered, e< seat yourself 
beside me." I will not detail the many cherished and inspir- 
ing words he uttered during that blissful half hour. They 
were to me a treasure which I would not share with another 
at any price. ¥7hen breakfast was concluded, my father said 
" I will precede you to the Porta San Gallo. There, Guido, I 
shall bid you my last adieu. 

" But your blessing, my dear father ! here let me implore it ! 



260 



MY CONFESSIONS. 



here, my dearest father," I exclaimed suddenly, overpowered 
by the grief which took possession of my heart. 

" For shame," Signor Guido. What means this grief, this 
agitation ?" he replied, as with a parent's eye he had read upon 
my countenance what was passing within me. 

" I am not agitated," I rep Lied, ashamed of my own weak- 
ness, et I would but implore your blessing here, upon this spot.' 

" Here then you shall have it,'' said the good old man with 
a seraphic smile. I knelt before him : then laying his hand 
upon my head, he addressed me as follows : " Guido, this is 
not your first entrance into the world. Your dwelling-place will 
not now, for the first time, be among strangers. You well know 
man already, and what you have to expect from him. Exact 
nothing, but always feel and acknowledge yourself grateful for 
the good you may receive. Remember that both here and 
elsewhere, men are alike brethren. The name of foreigner is 
an absurdity, a chimera. God is every where the father of us 
all, and heaven the land of our common re-union. 

" The love of virtue so strongly implanted within you ; the 
good habits you have acquired ; the suavity of manners so 
natural to you, will constitute a barrier for your defence amongst 
whatever people it is your destiny to be cast. 

" Guido, I hear a voice within my heart, whose predictions 
so redound to your happiness, that grief dares not find an en- 
trance there, although I am now on the eve of separating from 
so dear a son. 

" Guido, the heart of a father seldom errs when he predicts 
prosperity to a son, who loves, who honors, who supports him — 
and prosperity you will surely see ! Go, with my blessing 
upon you ! God will be ever with you in joy and in sorrow. 
Continue a dutiful son, an affectionate brother, a faithful friend, 
and fear nothing. You will be illumined amidst darkness ; 
you will feel society in solitude ; you will be conscious of 
God every where, and of the love of your father who now 
blesses you in this his last embrace." 

Thus saying he stooped, to kiss my forehead, whilst. I took 
his hand in both of mine, and imprinted upon it the last kiss 



MY CONFESSIONS. 26 1 

which emanated from the purest and most sacred recess of my 
heart. 

" To the Porta San Gallo," were the last words of my fa- 
ther, on quitting the little parlour precipitately, feeling himself 
incapable of supporting the separation any longer with firm- 
ness. It wanted but a few minutes to six o'clock, the hour 
when the coach was to take me from our house. 

My brother Giorgio was the only other relative I beheld that 
morning, who assisted me in preparing for my departure. We 
had always loved each other tenderly, but we exchanged no 
words on this occasion. Neither of us could speak. He ac- 
companied me to the step of the carriage, where, after receiving 
my embrace, he took leave of me, and thus I lost him also. 

On reaching the Porta San Gallo, I found a friend there 
awaiting my arrival, who put into my hands a little packet 
and a letter, 

" Where is my father ?" I enquired anxiously. 

" Read that letter/' replied my friend. 

At this juncture, the conviction that I should never behold 
my father again weighed upon me with so heart-rending a 
feeling, that, even thou, dear Pellico, canst scarcely form an 
idea of my grief. 

I broke the seal of the letter, and read as follows : — 

" I feel that my heart would break were I to see you again 
before your departure. It is requiring too much of my firmness; 
for, after all, my boasted courage would but expose the real 
weakness of my heart. I have therefore resolved to write 
this, my last, my fondest adieu ; and whilst you are pass- 
ing through the gates of our dear Florence, I will prostrate 
myself at the shrine of the Santissima Annunziata, to im- 
plore in your behalf the peace of our Saviour. 

" Be virtuous, and God will be your guide- 
" Your father, 

" GAETANO SOREL1-I." 

" P.S. I send you, as a remembrance of your father, the 



262 MY CONFESSIONS. 

golden crucifix I took from my neck this morning. For forty 
years I have worn it upon my bosom/ ' 

When I opened the packet, my eyes filled with tears, as I 
looked upon the precious relique : I bore it to my lips, and 
gave my hand in silent farewell to my friend. 

The next moment I had quitted my own dear Florence. 



END OF PART III. 



PART IV. 



PART IV. 



CHAPTER I. 



It was on the first of May in the year 1821, that I bade adieu 
to Florence. Having reached the first rising ground on the 
road, I alighted from the coach ; and, whilst the horses walked 
leisurely onwards, I pursued my route for several miles on foot. 
It was a heavenly morning. 

To endeavour to detail the various feelings, which by turns 
then occupied my mjnd, would be a fruitless task ; for, on the 
morning of that day, my heart itself was an enigma, it was, as 
it were, a volume closed even unto myself. 

When, from a train of adverse circumstances we are un- 
avoidably compelled to pursue a path which conducts we know 
not whither, our first steps may not inaptly be compared to the 
uncertainty experienced by our first parents, when dismissed 
from that Eden, the flowery paths of which all terminated in 
the temple of happiness. I seemed like the bark, which the 
night's storm had driven from its anchor, and now, without 

N 



£66 MY CONFESSIONS, 

sail or pilot, is tossed about, the unresisting sport of the tem- 
pestuous ocean. 

My footsteps bore me onwards, but my heart still remained 
behind : that heart, which knows no other country, save that 
in which it was first awakened into existence ; nor feels for 
any other land the love begotten almost in the cradle of infancy. 

Man becomes a citizen of the world only when compelled to 
dwell for ever at a distance from his own kinsmen ; he be- 
comes a philosopher, as it is called, only when forced to re- 
nounce all that is bright and beautiful in this life of blindness 
and treachery — all that is worthy of the good man — love, 
friendship, the esteem of others, and not unfrequently, his 
own ! Demand of any man what is the first wish of his 
heart ? And with how very few exceptions will he thus reply : 
"To live loving and beloved in the presence of my parents 
and kindred ; to be the centre of attachment amongst the friends 
of my childhood — at length to die in the palace, the house, or 
the cottage which received my first breath ; and after death to 
be borne to the foot of that altar, upon whose steps I first shed 
the tears of innocence, and afterwards those of repentance ; — 
to be buried near the haunts of my childhood, where still linger 
the loved beings, to whom in life I was dear, and to anticipate 
that by them alone my tomb will be recognized, by the flowers 
they themselves have planted and cherished." 

I had attained the summit of the Appenines before I reco- 
vered any degree of consciousness. It seemed as though my 
heart had winged its flight from my bosom. My frame still 
performed its mechanical movements, impelled by what power 
I know not ; although myself, yet I was not there. 

After having encountered a severe misfortune after having lost 
all that is valuable on earth, the human mind sinks insensibly 
into inanity ; a torpor in which it remains, scarcely conscious 
that the heart's pulses still beat within the bosom. But this 
lethargic stillness is Heaven's own balsam ; it is the panacea 
stealing through the heart's most hidden recesses — it is the 
balm of a divine hand, 



MY CONFESSIONS. %67 

" Lulling the bruised soul, t'awake again a smile !" 

But, though in these trying moments some invisible and bene- 
ficent power does stretch forth a healing hand to still the 
heart's anguished vibrations, yet a worm insensibly steals into 
the wound marking its stealthy progress by withering, gan- 
grening, and destroying the heart's vitality. 

Having gained three miles in advance of the coach, I now 
seated myself in order to await its approach, placing myself in 
such a position that I might enjoy for the last time the hea- 
venly prospect of the vale of Arno. 

What a crowd of thoughts, of recollections, of fond regrets, 
rushed into my mind, at this last contemplation of the scene ! 
How many tears were shed, and, although in sorrow, how 
much sweeter were they than smiles ! 

I know that very few will understand my feelings, but I 
write not for the multitude. When my mind presents to me 
the crowd, I almost sink into the most incorrigible misan- 
thrope. I heartily dislike the multitude, in whose overwhelm- 
ing torrent fools are entrained who make it at each moment 
more turgid, dense, and formidable in its course. 

The coach had now approached within half a mile of the 
spot upon which I was seated ! 

I sprang to my feet, exclaiming involuntarily, " Courage, 
Signor Guido I" as if it were the echo of a voice within myself. 
I wafted to Florence my last kiss, whilst still in sight. " May 
Heaven protect thee, Florence, and ever guide thy Guido!" 
I exclaimed ; and, springing from the mountain, I chose rather 
to quit this dear spot voluntarily than suffer myself to be 
dragged from it by four lagging quadrupeds, thus as the Flo- 
rentines say, <( facendomi onore del sol di Luglio." 



N 2 



268 MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER II. 



I had scarcely commenced my descent of the Appenines, when 
I felt my heart re -awaken within me. I resumed my feelings 
of calm content. In the common mind, it is an easy thing 
to make a virtue of necessity. Could it then have proved a 
hard task to one,, who, by nature, was certainly not a ple- 
beian, to feel that, though by the dispensation of Providence, 
he had lost all his earthly treasure, he was still possessed of 
one much greater, for he alone can be deemed happy who 
has absolutely renounced himself. " Que voulez-vous de 
mieux que d'etre toujours content, et de ne souffrir jamais 
aucune croix qui ne vous contente plus que les plaisirs op- 
poses ? C'est ce contentement que vous ne trouverez ja- 
mais dans votre cceur en vous livrant a vos passions, et qui ne 
vous manquera jamais en cherchant Dieu. II est vrai que ce 
n'est pas toujours un contentement sensible comme celui des 
plaisirs profanes ; mais enfin c'est un contentement tres-reel 
et fort superieur a ceux que le monde donne, puisque les pe- 
cheurs veulent toujours ce qui leur manque, et que les ames 
pleines de T amour de Dieu, ne veulent rien que ce qu'elles 
ont!" 

" Desire nothing, and you possess everything /" This is a 
proverb of my own. It is the motto I adopted on this me-" 
morable day, and which I have ever since remembered. He who 
would enjoy happiness, and who understands me, will also 
adopt it. 

" Etre chretien, et ne plus tenir a la terre, est la meme 
chose.' ' 

From that hour to the one in which I found myself on the 
frontiers of Milan, my journey was one beautiful dream, unin- 
terrupted by any real or imaginary annoyance. Hope, in those 
days, held her empire in my heart. Hope led me by the hand — 
not she, whom the senseless represent like Jove arrayed in 



MT CONFESSIONS. 269 

golden showers, but rather like the orb of day, whose setting 
glory promises a morrow of light, if not of sunny splendour. 

The interval of my journey between Bologna and Milan, 1 
employed in the composition of anacreontic odes and sonnets, 
the unfailing theme of which was — hope, 

I at length reached the custom-house at Milan. Here, 
as at those we had formerly encountered, we were compelled 
to dismount, and to give up our passports and portmanteaus. 

Already had I put my hand into my pocket to apprise the 
inspector, who stooped to open my trunk, that my offer- 
ing was prepared, provided his researches did not prove too 
rigid : this hint I had before found to be eminently success- 
ful with others of his fraternity. 

At the charming sound of this irresistible music, the time 
server — w r ho would have perhaps remained immoveable at the 
prayer of the unhappy — raised his head, though without alter- 
ing his position, and fixing his eye steadily upon me with a 
kind of hectoring smile accompanied by a shake of the head, 
seemed to say in terms not to be mistaken, though his tongue 
uttered them not : — " The echo of your francesconi is doubtless 
pleasing to mine ear, and in my poor judgment its harmony 
would be still increased if proceeding from the recesses of my 
own pocket ; but my unreasonable masters have prohibited my 
availing myself of the well judged liberality of travellers, so 
that I am reduced to the necessity of revenging myself, which 
I do by bringing to light all that falls within my grasp, and 
for which I am rewarded by the cordial malediction of you 
gentlemen travellers." 

As I thus interpreted the meaning of this fellow's looks, I 
could not help entertaining for the moment a harsh and uncha- 
ritable feeling towards him, and ceasing to ring my frances- 
coni, awaited with resignation the result of his researches. 

He had dived to the. bottom of my portmanteau, eyeing mi- 
nutely each separate article it contained. At length he came to 
my books, amongst which was my portfolio, containing about 
three hundred scattered sheets, upon which were written various 
compositions, partly my own and partly those of others. 



2^0 MY CONFESSIONS* 

Instead of depositing my portfolio upon the ground, as he had 
done with the other articles, he placed it under his arm, and 
began deliberately to read the title page of each of my books. 

I, who, meanwhile, had not regarded his movements with 
a very favourable eye or felt well inclined towards him, now 
exclaimed with a frown, " Why do you not put that portfolio 
down with the other things ?" 

" Oh no," replied the fellow, not condescending this time 
to raise his eyes, in reply; " manuscripts are suspicious articles, 
therefore I must examine them." 

At these words, which seemed to invest at once an indivi- 
dual, no less a fool than a rogue from his physiognomy, with 
the importance of censor of my verses, my patience gave way. 

" How can such an ignoramus as you understand poetry?" 
I could not help exclaiming. <( If I do not understand it it will 
be well for you that no one else does either," he replied coldly? 
still turning over the books. 

I made no reply, though I writhed with anger. 

After having completed the examination of each volume, he 
rose, and leaving my entire wardrobe upon the ground, " Come 
with me," he said in a tone of authority, at the same time pre- 
ceding me with my portfolio under his arm. 

1 felt that if I here refused obedience, it would be enforced, 
I therefore silently followed my conductor into an adjoining 
apartment, and beheld myself in the presence of an individual 
of a savage aspect, combining in his person, the worst features 
of the Austrian and the Italian. 

He was seated at a small table, examining the commercial 
letters of a Monsieur Dupre, a Parisian, and my travelling 
companion, who having amassed a splendid fortune at Flo- 
rence, in the manufacture of straw hats, was returning with 
his wife and family to Paris, to enjoy the fruits of his industry. 
Not less than twenty packets, each containing one hundred 
letters, were placed before the examiner. 

Dupre, surprized at the pertinacity with which each letter 
in the first packet had been scrutinized, wearied now of stand- 
ing so long, and still more distressed at the conviction that, by 



MY CONFESSIONS. 27 3 

u longer detention, the dinner we had ordered at the hotel, 
would be totally spoiled, involuntarily burst forth with, " Mais, 
mon cher monsieur, vous n'aurez jamais fini, si vous vous pro- 
posez d'examiner toutes ces lettres-la Tune apres l'autre. Nous 
serons ici trois jours et trois nuits, et, apres tout, cela ne vous 
amusera pas beaucoup ! Je vous jure, sur ma parole d'honneur, 
qu'il n'y a pas un mot de politique la-dedans : il ne s'agit que 
d'affaires de commerce." 

At this energetic address the examiner looked up from his 
task, and for a moment regarded the speaker, though without 
uttering a word. Being, however, a man of discernment, and, 
accustomed to interpret a great variety of countenances, for in 
such a tribunal as his own, every possessor of contraband 
articles assumes a peculiar deceit of expression ; he soon read 
in the pacific countenance of Dupre, that he was what the 
Florentines designate as " buono tre volte ;" in short, that he 
appeared to be too much of a coward to be a political despe- 
rado. He therefore no longer doubted that what he had told 
him was true, and contented himself by selecting one more let- 
ter from the packet which happened to be before him. He ran 
over it still with a scrutinizing air, and finding it contained no- 
thing relating to politics, he said, turning to Dupre, " Take 
away your papers, and pursue your journey pleasantly. " 

Dupre, however, did not quit the apartment. Convinced 
that my examination would be much more brief than his own, 
he was willing to secure to himself the credit of performing an 
act of courtesy by waiting for his fellow traveller. Scarcely 
had the rogue of a searcher consigned my portfolio to the ex- 
aminer, than the latter fixed on me a pair of eyes, which 
seemed as though they would have penetrated the most secret 
recesses of my souL But I had now grown familiar with ugly 
countenances, and was besides conscious that I had nothing 
contraband to conceal. I therefore only replied to his gaze by 
a laugh. 

" Who are you ?" demanded the Bcetian, not at all satisfied 
with my manner. 



272 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" At Florence, whence I come, the custom-house authorities 
would have demanded, 'who is your lordship V " I replied with 
a sardonic smile which we Florentines know so well how to 
assume. 

Seeing he was now extremely displeased, and feeling myself 
sufficiently revenged for his impertinence, and unwilling to in- 
crease his dislike, I added more civilly, " I am Guido SoreUi, 
of Florence, a literary man, as you have doubtless understood 
Jby my passport, and which you will also find to be quite 
correct." 

The politeness of my style of address so won upon this su- 
perficial being, that his countenance instantly cleared up. 

" You are then a Florentine ?" he asked with complacency. 

" A Florentine, at your service." 

" I imagined so/' 

How he had at first taken me to be a Florentine, whether 
from my idiom, my sarcasm, my dress or my sardonic laugh, 
I cared not then to enquire, nor does it import much now that 
I should know. Here, however, our dialogue terminated, and 
opening my portfolio, he began to turn over its contents sepa- 
rately. 

The wretched apartment we were in containing nothing in 
it worthy of my attention, I fixed my eyes carelessly upon 
the leaves which the examiner took up with his right hand, 
and which, after having scrutinized, he deposited upon his left, 
when — who can paint my terror and dismay ! — I beheld be- 
neath the last sheet, now in the examiner's hand, a rough copy 
of a revolutionary sonnet, the only one I had ever composed 
in my life, and which I thought, nay was sure, I had destroyed. 

But to enable you, Pellico, to form a competent judgment of 
the state of my feelings at this discovery, it is necessary that I 
should relate briefly the history of this sonnet. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 273 



CHAPTER III. 

The winter of 1820-1, was marked at Naples by a universal 
outcry for a "free constitution/ ' You will remember, Pellico, 
that at that period, the throat of every Neapolitan was, as 
it were, a Vesuvius, whose fiery eruption sounded but of 
Liberty ! whilst its resounding echoes rang throughout Eu- 
rope. Amongst the many nations that had heard the cry, the 
generous few alone applauded ; whilst all, with the exception of 
Austria, who looked with contempt upon the project, marvelled 
that Italy, so long esteemed a dead letter among nations, should 
have at length awakened from what had been merely a long 
protracted dream. The result of this much dreaded convul- 
sion was another illustration of the truth of the classical fable — 
after the convulsive throes of the mountain, there issued forth 
a mouse. But let me not dwell upon this scene of infamy en- 
acted in that unhappy corner of Italy, the effect of which was 
once more to brand with the unmerited stamp of cowardice, 
the whole of the Italian nation* The idea was so splendid ; 
the project so new, so gigantic ; that there were found, even 
among the Tuscans — themselves a clear-sighted, enlightened, 
and prudent people, who seldom mistake the glow-worm for 
the beacon-light— many, who hesitated not to embrace it, and 
who, though content beneath the paternal reign of the Grand 
Duke, Ferdinand III., were willing to sacrifice their own indi- 
vidual security and happiness, in order to co-operate with what 
they deemed the general prosperity of Italy. 

From this moment then, as members of " carbonarism ;" 
that secret society so much dreaded by the princes of Italy, 
and which, becoming daily more formidable, will prove, at 
length irresistible ; they hesitated not to employ every means 
in their power to attract to their standard — I will not say the 
nobles, for they were at that time, generally, the most 

n 3 



274 MY CONFESSIONS. 

ignorant class in Tuscany— but all amongst the middle classes 
who possessed among them the most brilliant, the most en- 
lightened, the most courageous and solid in principle. 

Florence was then, as it had ever been, a field so fertile in 
courage, genius and virtue, that, surrounded as I was by 
so many luxuriant plants, I could not hope to stand forth 
conspicuous amongst them, more than does the scentless 
ranunculus when peeping through a bouquet of odorous violets, 
jessamine, heliotrope, and orange flowers. 

How it happened, I know noj, but it entered the brains of 
three distinguished Florentines to seek me one night, and thus 
to break in upon the tranquillity and unobtrusive humility of 
the unenvied ranunculus. 

" Guido ! your friend Z ; with two other gentlemen wish to 
speak with you immediately." 

Such was the exclamation of my father, about three o'clock 
one morning, at the door of my apartment. 

At the mention of my friend Z, I sprang from my bed, 
dressed myself hurriedly, and following my father, who had 
ushered them into my little study, soon found myself in the 
presence of my dear friend and two other gentlemen ; by whom, 
I now feel, at a distance of fourteen years, 

" Myself exalted in their proud reflection. " 

With his usual considerate feeling, my father withdrew upon 
introducing me into the room. 

" Signor Guido," began one of the strangers, both of whom 
were only known to me by sight, " we have disturbed your 
repose : but the object of our visit involves not so much our 
own interest as your welfare." 

After this preamble, he went on to descant upon the political 
position of unhappy Italy, which he did with an eloquence 
sufficient not only to have invested the timid hare with the 
courage of the; lion, but to have transformed the unnatural 
oppressors of our beautiful country, into its Caesars and Fathers, 



MY CONFESSIONS. 2?5 

My friend Z. who had not stirred from the position which he 
had assumed upon my entrance, stood silently regarding me. 
I raised my eyes to his, before replying to the individual whose 
harangue had thus filled my soul with renewed love for my 
country, and already felt my heart prepared to expand its last 
drop of blood in her defence. 

It would be impossible to express all that the animated 
countenance, whose features were so familiar to me, seemed 
to suggest. But though his looks evidently counselled 
" that a citizen should renounce every thing for the hap- 
piness and welfare of his country/' his penetrating eyes seemed 
also to make these demands : " Guido ! does the flame that 
now runs through thy veins spring from a lasting fire ? Art 
thou really the oak challenging the storm but to deride it? 
The oak, that nothing but the axe can remove from the soil 
in which it hath taken root ? Art thou confident that thou 
canst smile at the exile's poverty ? that thou canst breathe 
freely in the dungeons of Spielberg ? submit thy neck re- 
signedly to the guillotine ? that thou canst part tearlessly from 
thy companions, and hear unshrinkingly, that Cleofe and thy 
father have died broken hearted for thy political apostacy ?" 

These were the questions which seemed successively to ema- 
nate from the clear open countenance of a friend who was like 
my second self. 

At the contemplation of the exile's fate, of the dungeons of 
Spielberg, at the prospect of a separation from my friends, and 
the infliction of the guillotine, my heart remained not only un- 
shaken in its resolution, but even inflamed w T ith a desire to 
become a martyr. I considered that to die upon a scaffold in 
so noble a cause, would be the bright redeeming spot of an ex- 
istence brief, uncertain, and ever miserable. I fancied it would 
be the baptism of the soul by blood, purifying it, and thus 
enabling it to present itself at the tribunal of Christ, as a spirit 
worthy of the compassion and pardon of its Redeemer. But 
at the last demand — " Could I without vacillating, learn, that, 
through me, Cleofe and my father had died broken-hearted ?" 



276 MY CONFESSIONS. 

my soul so late inflated by enthusiasm, experienced a sudden 
revulsion ; its very currents seemed congealed in their course. 
I could have parted from my friends — I could have died in 
my country's cause. That had been an easy task, nay more, 
it would have been but fulfilling the destiny to which I seemed 
to be born. Bat when at the altar of my own individual sacri- 
fice, I beheld attached to me in perspective the shadow}* forms 
of a father and a sister whom I so tenderly loved, about to be 
involved in my own voluntary destruction, I shrank in horror 
from myself, and seemed to stand at the shrine of an infernal 
rather than of a celestial divinity. I renounced the love — I hated 
the name of that unnatural liberty, which could inspire — that 
dared to exact so cruel a sacrifice. I acknowledged that J cer- 
tainly was not born to be great, if these were the conditions of 
my greatness, I divested myself of the patriot's armour, which 
I had but assumed, and which sat so ill upon me, and once 
more I shrank into my pristine nothingness. I had remained 
silent for the space of some minutes, during which time I had to 
encounter the gaze of my three visitors, each endeavouring to 
interpret from my countenance the answer I was about to 
give. 

"As to Cleofe I cannot answer for her, but this I know- 
that if ill befall me, it will break my father's heart !" 

This kind of soliloquy uttered unconsciously by me, at length 
put an end to the anxious suspense we were all in. 

It was subsequently proposed, that Signor Guido should 
have twenty- four hours to consider of his determination, and 
with a cordial shake of the hand on all sides, our little con- 
gress broke up. 

In a state of bewilderment I stood alone in my study, quite 
conscious, however, that two thirds of my heart's sympathies 
had accompanied my friends in spite of myself. 

" Will you not return to rest ?" asked my father who nov 
presented himself at the door of the apartment. 

" No, Signore," was all the reply I could give. 

My father regarded me steadfastly for a moment, and turned 



MY CONFESSIONS. 277 

very pale ; but with his usual reserve, he left me without any 
farther question. Never before had I experienced such a 
conflict of feelings as at that moment. Each agitating period 
of my past existence, seemed, in comparison, but like the 
gentle undulations of a beautiful lake fanned by the zephyr's 
breath ; this, the rolling of the ocean stirred by a thousand 
wrathful winds. 

A hand of fire seemed to have traced upon my heart these 
terrible words : "Thou must either sacrifice thy father and thy 
sister, and receive in recompense, thy country's laurels ; or 
sacrifice that country to personal considerations, and submit for 
ever to bear the brand of infamy and cowardice !" 

It had struck five, and I now fancied I heard Cleofe's voice. 
I was not mistaken, for upon enquiring of my father if 
Cleofe had yet risen ? he replied— 

" Oh yes ! she rose when she heard of the arrival of 
your friends. The coffee is prepared, and if you are ready I 
will call her to join our breakfast." 

I assented : and very soon the remembrance of my tempes- 
tuous solitude was lost in the serenity of their beloved society* 

" My dear Guido," began my father, as he took his coffee, 
" I am quite convinced that an affair of much seriousness has 
been the subject of your discussion with your three friends this 
morning. You have now been for a few short years master of 
your actions, and perhaps it is not now for me to seek to pene- 
trate your motives or to influence them. Yet, though at the 
age of twenty-one, the authority of a father may cease, a 
parent's counsel is ever ready to be bestowed on his child 
in whatever trying situation he may be placed. 

" I know Z. to be a man of honour— -a nujpor of integrity, 
and proud am I to rank him amongst your familiar friends. 
His companions I know not; but I must confess to you 
their presence this morning startled me. Yet I rely upon you ; 
I dare not seek for farther explanation." 

No sooner had my father pronounced these last words, 
than he became overpowered apparently by the terror his own 



278 MY CONFESSIONS. 

predictions had conjured up, and fell without consciousness into 
the arms of my sister. 

" What is this, Guido ?" exclaimed Cleofe, with tears in her 
eyes, and casting a reproachful glance upon me that seemed to 
say, " can it be that you have caused such grief, perhaps the 
very death even of a parent who loves you more than his 
own life ?" 

At the spectacle of Cleofe' s tears falling fast upon the pallid 
countenance of my father, as he lay upon her bosom, I seemed 
to awake from a horrible dream, and to burst asunder the 
magic chain whose thraldom had rendered me almost power- 
less. I sprang to fetch some cordial which stood near my 
writing desk, and heartily eschewed that liberty which threat- 
ened to cost me a parent so beloved, so affectionate, so 
amiable. 

When he was restored to consciousness, he embraced me 
and wept bitterly. I held him in my arms, but I spoke not, 
until his alarms seemed to have subsided. 

" A dark cloud has passed from over the head of your son 
Guido," I at length said; " but it was only a cloud, my father, 
and has left no trace of its shadow. I will not conceal that 
the object of the strangers' visit, this morning, was alarming : 
its tendency was, that, for my country's welfare, I ought not to 
hesitate to sacrifice my father and sister. But when I reflected, 
that should the result be fatal to myself, you, my father, 
would die of grief ; I feared not this indeed of Cleofe — she has 
too much of her brother's soul within her ; it was then I re- 
solved to show myself the son rather than the patriot." 

" Can this be true ?" asked my father, his eyes smiling 
through his tea^s. 

" The whole truth," I replied. 

" You promise then not to enrol yourself with the Car- 
bonari P" 

" Upon this hand I now swear it !'' I exclaimed, imprinting 
a kiss upon it, as I spoke. 

The sun had risen above the horizon ; and with its first soft 



MY CONFESSIONS. 2/0 

serenity and happiness re-assumed their empire within 
our hearts, for so many hours the sport of a tempest, which, 
though varying in its aspect, had been equally agitating to us 
all. 



CHAPTER IV. 



It will be easily imagined, that my having renounced Car- 
bonarism subjected me to very unfavourable imputations on th e 
part of those who had solicited me to join their association, 
Still I was not personally disliked by the Carbonari, They 
seemed rather to view my caution with a feeling of pity than 
contempt. 

But, although I was not a Carbonaro, I was a patriot, and 
deeply I felt for the welfare of my country ; and when the 
news reached Florence, that the Neapolitans had not fought — ■ 
but had been put to flight by the Austrians, I cculdnot repress 
my indignation at their want of resolution. The humiliating 
intelligence seemed to gnaw at my very heart ; and snatching 
up my pen, I wrote the revolutionary sonnet that now gave me 
such uneasiness. 

Having completed it, I repaired to my friend Z. — the most 
placable of the three who had failed in their conversion of the 
irresolute Guido, of whom they asserted that, 

" His grovelling soul dar'd not accept the cause." 

f< Give me a transcript of it!" exclaimed my friend, after 
having listened to it. 

" Nay," replied I, putting it quietly into my pocket, u I am 
not quite so mad as that." 

•* At least, read it over again," he asked. 

This I assented to. 



280 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Before the evening the sonnet was in the mouth of every 
Carbonaro in Florence, although not one would have taken the 
liberty of transcribing it. Indeed they had themselves warned 
Z. against permitting a copy of it being circulated, lest it might 
injure the author. 

It was the custom at the Casa Sorelli, to take coffee always 
in the Salotto di Gaido. Here, then, on the afternoon of this 
day, the family had, as usual, assembled, 

" Hearken to my inspiration, produced by the disastrous 
news from Naples," said I to my dear companions as they 
took their coffee. " What do you think of this sonnet ?" 

It would be difficult to convey an idea of the applause of my 
auditors, whose generous feelings of patriotism had been 
awakened by my effusion. 

But my mother-in-law — my father had married again — whom 
few surpassed in affection for me, estimating poetry at a lower 
rate than the others, or perhaps more apprehensive of the danger 
I might incur, after having suffered the applause to subside a 
little, rose from her seat, and with maternal anxiety entreated 
me to give her the sonnet. 

At first, I resolutely resisted the demand ; but my refusal 
was useless ; and I was at length compelled to surrender it, at 
the united prayer of my family, who feared that, on the accusa- 
tion of some spy, I might be arrested with the dangerous 
document in my possession. 

Gratified as I was by the opinion, which pronounced it .to 
be the best of my compositions, my self-love gave way be- 
fore the superior duty of a son and brother. Sacrificing, there- 
fore, a prospective applause upon the shrine of domestic affec- 
tion, and with a smile— though not without a little secret 
regret — I resigned this rash effusion into the hands of my timid 
mother-in-law. 

No sooner had she obtained possession of it, than tearing it 
into a thousand pieces, she threw the fragments from the 
terrace- window, watching the descent of each atom, until she 
beheld them safely floating on the classic waters of the 
Arno. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 28 1 

Such, Pellico, is the history of the sonnet, which I had 
penned, in a moment of blind rage at the cowardice of the 
Neapolitans. Unfortunately, I was not aware that I had 
transferred it to more than the sheet of paper I had given up 
to my mother-in-law. 

Here is the sonnet which I beheld before the examiner at 
Milan, about to undergo his scrutiny, as soon as he should have 
completed the inspection of other papers that had first presented 
themselves to his notice. 



SONNET. 

A coward city urged by thought divine, 
Cried — " Italy awake ! thy glory — mine I*' 
The sov'reign eagle* heard the rebel cry, 
His talons sharpened. . . .to await the die. 

In Lubianaf sat the despot crew : 
Their Congress naught but evil counsels knew ! 
By woman's^ toils. . . „by monkish j| chains ensnared 
To stand a perjur'd thing, a monarch dar'd ! 

Loud peal the trumpets ! first to aid the fight 
A thousand foreign swords are glancing bright : 
The sov'reign eagle triumphs from afar, 
While Italy returns the blast of war. 

'Tis hush'd ! betraying him their leader § chief, 
Their patriot love now chang'd to abject grief. 
Oh Italy ! no fear hath made me fly : 
Too well had I foreseen thy destiny. 

* The standard of the house of Austria. 

|" The Congress of Lubiana whither the King of Naples repaired to 
demand permission of the Allies to fulfil the promise he had made to 
his Neapolitan subjects of granting them a Constitution. 

% The Queen of Naples. 

|| The King's Confessor, the principal instrument, together with the 
Queen, in persuading the King to forfeit his pledge. 

§ General Pepe. 



282 MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER V. 



The reflection, that, from the composition of this sonnet, a 
termination might be put to my projected journey to London, 
where I had hoped to become really an independent man, to 
create for myself a name amongst the literati, and to acquire 
the power of supporting my family ; and the prospect of being 
sent in chains to Spielberg, for a period perhaps interminable — 
should I even escape the block — were only the flames of the 
Catholic's purgatory, where Hope administers her comforts to 
the tormented ; whilst the third reflection, that I had thus 
unwillingly become the instrument of my poor father" s death, was 
to my heart the torture of despair which inserts into the wound 
a never dying worm. 

I felt my cheeks blanched when the examiner at length took 
the dreaded paper. 

At this crisis, my heart ceased its pulsation, my breath 
failed me. 

With contracted brows, and an eager scrutinizing air the 
examiner commenced the perusal of my sonnet. 

My eyes were intently fixed upon his countenance, whilst 
I felt my heart to be at Florence, bleeding at the feet of that 
parent, for whose preservation I would have sacrificed my 
existence and even that of Italy itself. He alone occupied my 
thoughts ; my own safety* formed no part of my present 
anxiety ; and I was now, in anticipation of the fatal conse- 
quences threatened, already mourning his loss — when I beheld 
the examiner slowly and deliberately place the perilous sonnet 



MY CONFESSIONS. 283 

amongst those papers that had safely passed through the 
ordeal. 

My heart recovered its pulsations, and " thank God!" was 
the echo of its first palpitation. 

But, though sunshine had gleamed in the distance, the dark 
cloud had not yet passed from over my head, nor had the rain- 
bow appeared in token of returning calm. 

During a brief, but apparently to me, a most tedious interval, 
the examiner sat in deep meditation without attempting to 
take another paper from the now really harmless folio. He 
then resumed the perusal of the fatal sonnet. 

The rustling of the paper in the hands of the examiner 
struck at my heart a thrill, similar to that experienced by the 
wretched criminal when he hears the whizzing of the spring, 
that precipitates the fatal knife of the guillotine upon his de- 
voted neck. 

I then abandoned all hope for my father — for myself. 

But despair, after a certain point, acquires a peculiar kind of 
courage, and its energy draws forth faculties of endurance that 
we seemed before not to possess — 



" As one from sad dismay 
Recomforted, and after thoughts disturb'd 
Submitting to what seem'd remediless, 
Thus in calm moo d 



A feeling of resignation to whatever evil man could inflict, 
suddenly took possession of my mind, and, with a brow cf 
determination, I stood prepared to encounter fortune's darkest 
frowns. 

For the space of a few seconds longer, the examiner retained 
my sonnet ; when, to my surprise and amazement he once 
more put it down — selected another paper — glanced it over 



284 MY CONFESSIONS. 



hastily: returned them all to the portfolio, and delivering tha 
into my hand, wished me a prosperous journey. 

No sooner had I left the room, than, throwing my portfolio 
upon the ground, I snatched from it the fatal sonnet, and being 
at a loss for any other means of instantly getting quit of the 
dangerous document, I thrust it into my mouth and swallowed 
it. 

Never did an honest physician prescribe so efficient a remedy 
to a patient, as the application I thus administered to mv- 
self. 

Dupre who, though still unconscious of the cause of my 
distress, was much agitated upon my account, stood regarding 
me with attention and surprise. 

There were several persons in the anti-room, amongst whom 
were a number of Gendarmes : but as I had quitted the cham- 
ber of examination freely, none of them suspected me to be 
disaffected to the Austrian Government. They appeared there- 
fore petrified at beholding me thus enjoying the unusual repast 
of a sheet of paper, having previously observed me select, 
with a true epicurean feeling, a particular one from a thousand 
others with the desperation of frenzy. 

So long as there remained a question of my safety, involving 
as it did, my father's— to me so much more important— I paused 
not to observe whether I was alone ; but now that I had de- 
stroyed what might have become the death-warrant of my 
excellent father, I rushed into the open air, followed by Dupre", 
too anxious to breathe an atmosphere uncontaminated by spies 
and police agents. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 285 



CHAPTER VI. 

" And who saved me from this great peril ?" 

" God!" 

(t And what human agency did he employ as the instrument 
of my deliverance ?" 

In attempting to answer this, I become involved in a 
labyrinth of doubt and mystery. 

It is a scene almost too complex for the light of human 
intellect to penetrate. But let Intellect argue the question 
with the Heart, with the view of solving the problem. 

The Intellect, — It is plain that the examiner, ha]f Austrian 
half Italian, was himself an obscure person, unable to under- 
stand poetry ; he therefore can have discovered in this sonnet 
of Guico Sorelli's, nothing but so many unintelligible charac- 
ters. 

The Heart. — Unintelligible ! Are, then, the expressions 
Italia, Lubiana and Diabclico Se?iato, so difficult to compre- 
hend ? 

The Intellect. — Perhaps not, individually considered ; but 
when taken in conjunction with others intelligible only to those 
who understand poetry, it is then they become hidden charac- 
ters. Dost thou believe that such an ignoramus could grasp 
the meaning of Rostro : Aguzzar gli artiglj : Ccrdigliero ," 
besides several other passages equally obscure to him whose 
confined understanding could not allow him to rise above 
the exercise of his mere duties ? 

The Heart. — Not so fast : is it likely that the examiner, 
dull as you would make him appear, could possibly have failed 
to interpret rightly the beginning of the last verse " Italia io 



Z86 MY CONFESSIONS, 

fuggo ?" Remember his frowning brow, while scanning that 
portion of the poem — his subsequently resuming its perusal 
after laying it aside ; the sudden dismissal of that frown from 
his countenance, when, after a moment's reflection, he again 
laid it down with a decided air. Then again, remember the 
negligence with which he hurried over the remaining papers. 
Why not rather believe that he performed here the part of the 
" kind Savage i" — why not suppose he really understood the 
sonnet he read with so much eager attention ; and that not 
having found the name of Guido Sorelli in the black -book, 
which contained the names of suspected Italians ; and, more- 
over, observing his passport to be correct, he thus reasoned 
with himself: — " Here is a young Florentine, who, although 
certainly somewhat sarcastic and impertinent, is apparently well- 
disposed. He is a young man of literary pretensions, who is per- 
haps discontented with the government of Italy, but is now on 
his way to England, to seek on her shores an honourable sub- 
sistence ! Behold in him a Being in the flower of youth, en- 
dowed with health, and a heart reflecting hope. At my fiat, 
behold that youth, that health, and the dazzling mirror that 
hope now presents to him, crushed in an instant, or exchanged 
for a living death. — And shall I pronounce his doom ? — Oh, 
no ! rather let me for once suffer a rigorous law to succumb 
to my compassion, awakened in his behalf. 

Intellect. — And you seriously think he was actuated by so 
benevolent a motive ? 

Heart. — It could hardly be otherwise. But, alas ! oar com- 
munion is so unfrequent, that I almost despair of curing you 
of vour unjust suspicions, of your tendency to misanthropy. Re- 
member, oh Intellect ! that, though thy benefits to mankind 
are more dazzling than mine, but few possess thy inspiration, 
while all men have me within their bosoms — me who was 
created to dwell on earth the tabernacle of love to God and 
good-will to men. Cease, then, to debase human nature by 
thv cavillings ; for, although Satan too often makes me the 



MY CONFESSIONS. 287 

instrument of man's misery, there is more virtue to be found 
amongst my untutored offspring, than nobility of feeling 
amongst thine, the children of talent and genius. 
Intellect. — Thou hast conquered. 



CHAPTER VII. 



As I entered Milan, my thoughts turned involuntary to- 
wards those friends at Florence who took an active part in the 
politics of our country* I speculated upon their estimate of my 
patriotism — founded, as it probably was, upon my abandon- 
ment of what seemed to me a mischievous association — that of 
the Carbonari. Well knowing their highly wrought feelings 
upon this subject, I fancied I heard them declaiming against 
the recreant Guido in these terms : 

cf He who admits that the heart of the tyrant, or that of any 
of his satellites is accessible to virtue, acknowledges himself at 
least to be no enemy to either — and the Italian, who does not 
declare himself their foe, desires not the welfare of his country, 
and would not co-operate in heart or hand to deliver his 
country from the Austrian yoke. 

" Signor Guido then has entered Milan himself a slave in 
heart, or an Austrian from the depravity of his soul." 

" Am I then really so base and pusillanimous, or am I an 
Austrian ?" I demanded of my heart. 

" Thou art neither the one nor the other," my heart replied, 
" thou art persuaded, that the love of Liberty is one of the 
most perilous passions by which the human mind is influenced : 
that, like every other unrestrained passion, it too often blinds 
its possessor, and, instead of true liberty, imposes a hard and 
shameless servitude- 



288 MY CONFESSIONS. 

"Remember that, without, all wears the semblance of smiles, 
but within, there is trouble and disquiet ; that it is at once the 
greatest error and the greatest misery to believe oneself free, 
when that very freedom depends more upon others than upon 
oneself. Thou dost feel that not only the absolute law of 
custom and the imperious necessity of pleasing others, renders 
this life one uninterrupted state of thraldom, but that man 
has ever found his own passions are to him the most absolute 
and cruel tyrants in this world. Thou art convinced that if 
he submit but in part to their guidance, his life must become 
one constant struggle with himself; that they will betray 
him, rend his spirit, trample under feet the laws of honour 
and reason, and remain still unsatisfied ; whilst, should he re- 
sign himself to their entire dominion, they will prove a tor- 
rent resistless and interminable. Oh Guido I preserve thyself 
from that fatal servitude, which men blush not to denomi- 
nate liberty. Remember that man's freedom is alone in his 
Maker, that God's truth can alone render man independent ; 
that to serve God is to reign supreme in power ; and that 
where the spirit of the Lord is felt, there alone is true liberty. 

" Where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty." 

<( Remember that he alone is free, who, humble in himself, 
accepts, at the hands of the world, humiliation, trial and sor- 
row—all that it is the will of God to inflict upon him, both 
from without and within his own breast ; who steels himself 
against himself, and fears not the censure nor the criticism of 
man. Remember that humility constitutes alone true liberty, 
and presents the soul robed in the angelic simplicity of virtue. 
It is the only perfection of which our imperfection is suscep- 
tible — the only cessation from the continued warfare, to which 
man is condemned, with the angel of darkness, who ever lies in 
wait for his victim when least he is looked for." 

As my heart thus whispered to me this salutary counsel, I 



MY CONFESSIONS. 289 

felt that I could easily forgive the harsh judgment formed by 
my quondam carbonaro associates on my alleged want of pa- 
triotism ; and with a sincere prayer for my country's welfare, 
and reliance upon God, I turned my back upon Milan, say- 
ing to myself, " My soul, fear thou the Lord and the King, and 
meddle not with them that are given to change/' 



CHAPTER VIII. 



Behold me disembarked at Dover, and contemplating from 
its rocky heights, the waves that separated me from the shores 
I had just left, and which indeed seemed by their turbulence, 
to threaten me with an awful doom were I rash enough to re- 
pent my undertaking, and to return without making an effort to 
create for myself a new and more brilliant career. 

To the eye of a foreigner, Dover offers but a poor idea 
of the cleanliness of the streets and houses of England, 
which forms so essential a feature of what the English call 
comfort, a word not to be translated, but which is to an En- 
glishman a second nature — his second self. 

Dingy, however, as the streets of Dover are in comparison 
with those of most English towns, yet so favourably did they 
contrast with those of Paris, where I had but lately passed 
through, that I was actually struck with surprize and admira- 
tion at what I considered the cleanliness of the town. 

I certainly marvelled exceedingly at not finding any palaces, 
and still greater was my astonishment afterwards, at beholding 
so few in London — London, which may now indeed be consi- 
dered the capital of the world. I had then to learn that, 
though an Englishman's mansion may present but an unattrac- 

o 



290 MY CONFESSIONS. 

tive exterior, it may however possess, within, tasteful de- 
corations, and even, when the rank of the owner requires it, 
gorgeous splendour ; that if " Apsley," and " Holderness 
Houses," in their construction do not boast of the Corinthian 
' or Doric orders, but rather resemble prisons from without, 
they are within, not only palaces, but kingly habitations, 
capable of containing a host of the most distinguished 
personages. 

But though I sought in vain for some of those palaces of 
unapproachable magnificence, which, at Florence and at Rome, 
rise in such painful contrast to the poverty of the surrounding 
habitations, each house I now contemplated — each cottage, 
convinced me that I was in England, amongst a people whose 
power was not manifested in vain appearance ; whose substance 
and whose happiness evaporated not with .the smoke of their 
chimneys, but who, concentrating their prosperity in domestic 
comforts ; and in the solid instruction and welfare of their chil- 
dren, feel the rallying point of their affections to consist in the 
union of their domestic fire-side, where are breathed the sweet 
and salutary words of counsel, whilst each heart is kindled by 
the spark of reciprocal love, friendship and good- will more 
vivid than the flame which illumines their cheerful hearth. 

It wanted about ten minutes to ten o'clock on the first morn- 
ing after my arrival, v/hen I heard a carriage and four drive 
up to the door of the hotel accompanied with the sonorous 
notes of a horn. 

Curiosity led me to the windows ; and I then beheld four of 
the most beautiful horses I had ever seen in my life, with the 
coachman and trumpeter arrayed in gold and scarlet liveries. 

I made up my mind, that this must be the equipage of some 
prince then residing in the hotel, and whilst I stood marvelling 
at the magnificence of the first grandee I had been so fortu- 
nate as to meet with in England, the waiter, quite out of breath, 
rushed into the coffee-room, exclaiming — 

" The coach! the coach, signore !" at the same time ex- 
tending his palm in expectation of the accustomed gratuity. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 29 1 

M You are a fool !" I replied laughing, " I am not the prince 
to whom that equipage belongs. " 

" Come, come, signore ! That is the public conveyance/' 
exclaimed the man shouldering my valise as he spoke. 

I now followed him, and the next moment I was seated in 
a splendid coach drawn by four of the most superb horses I 
had ever seen in my life. 

The horn once more sounded, and the horses sprang forward. 
They seemed, to my astonished senses, not merely to run, but ac« 
tuallv to fly. I was the sole occupant of the coach ; I knew not 
then, that at any part of the way, other passengers might step in. 

I imagined that Signor Soreili was to be the sole traveller in 
a coach, which appeared to me to belong to the sovereign. I 
imagined — absurdly enough — that the coachman, the trum- 
peter and the waiter having discovered in the physiognomy 
of the Florentine, the stamp of the gran Signore in per- 
spective, if he were not actually so already, they had decreed 
him this mark of respect as his due — indeed, that they had 
purposely appropriated the whole inside of the coach to 
Signor Guido from the reverence with which his countenance 
had inspired them. 

Inflated with a temporary feeling of my own importance, I 
sat for nearly two hours with my face close to the window of 
the coach, in order that the passers-by might enjoy the benefit 
of looking upon the countenance of the great Guido of Flo- 
rence. 

To my mortification, I passed along perfectly unheeded. 

"What a senseless race are these English peasants \" I 
exclaimed in extreme wrath at their indifference, ' ' what dif- 
ferent animals are they from those rational beings, the peasants 
of Tuscany and of Switzerland, who take off their hats when- 
ever a gentleman approaches !" 

I indignantly drew up the glass; and opening my guitar-case, 
endeavoured by singing, to beguile my solitude. 

I had not been thus employed more than five minutes, when 
the coach suddenly stopped, and an old woman all curls, 



292 MY CONFESSIONS. 

ribands, tinsel and lace, entered the coach, and took possession 
of one of the seats of honour. 

I was not offended at her age or ugliness, but the expres- 
sion of her countenance did not please me. No sooner there- 
fore had I seen her, than I immediately locked up my guitar, 
fearful that I might be solicited by this ancient beldame to 
sing. 

But I was this time mistaken in my knowledge of physiognomy. 
It often happens that the English > in travelling, do not ad- 
dress a word of conversation to each other, until the termina- 
tion of a long journey, when each repents he had not before 
transgressed the self-imposed silence. 

The English lady, however, was in this instance the first to 
address me. 

" Is this your first visit to England, sir ?" she asked me with 
so much politeness and kindness, that, at that moment she 
appeared quite charming if not even handsome. 

Her urbanity and her good will won upon me in an instant, 
so that, ashamed of myself for having been so much deceived 
in her physiognomy, I paid her the most profound respect, and 
maintained a conversation with her until the entrance of other 
individuals into the coach interrupted it. 

We had travelled together about fifteen miles, when the 
coach again stopped ; and my elderly female companion having 
then reached her destination, very kindly expressed her good 
wishes for my happiness in England. 

That the hour of dinner had arrived, I felt convinced from 
the symptoms of hunger I experienced, but I could not possibly 
divine where we should stop for that repast. 

At two o'clock we arrived at a small town, and a gentleman 
in the coach, with whom I had entered into conversation, in- 
formed me that we could dine there, and invited me to accom- 
pany him. I could not but wonder why my other coach-com- 
panions did not join us ; but hunger now left me no time for 
reflection, and having entered the dining parlour, I seated my- 
self by the courteous individual who had conducted me thither. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 293 

We were alone ; when presently I beheld a servant in holiday ' 
costume enter the apartment, bearing a dish of unreasonable 
dimensions, with a silver cover on it, and so weighty, that the 
unfortunate sufferer's face was the colour of scarlet, and his 
eyes seemed starting from their sockets with the exertion of 
carrying it. 

" Where are the other guests ?" I exclaimed, upon behold- 
ing this gigantic specimen of the English roast beef. 

At this question, my travelling companion turned upon me 
a significant smile, saying, 

"This is all for us!" after which, cutting off a magnificent 
slice, he sent it to me by the waiter. 

I had been for so many days nearly poisoned at Paris by the 
French dish called " selon mon gout," which the English have 
translated into " salmagundi," that the very aspect of this fine 
roasted joint cheered my heart; and after having eaten of 
it, I imagined myself already half an Englishman. 

We had soon dispatched our dinner, and returning to the 
coach, proceeded to London. 



CHAPTER IX. 



It was the evening of the 12th of June, 1821, when I first 
entered the capital of England. 

For the second time in my life, I again beheld myself in the 
midst of a multitude, who understood me not and whom I 
could not understand. 

To be thus alone — unknown — in a crowd, is in itself a situ- 
ation of , painful embarrassment ; but my arrival in London was 
marked by a much more serious evil — that of bitter disappoint- 



294 MY CONFESSIONS, 

ment in my worldly prospects. But the christian charity^ 
taught me by the religious principles of the faith I now hap- 
pily profess, forbids my characterizing with a harsher term 
than disappointment, the mortification and distress I had to 
endure at that portion of m}' life, But whilst I bury in si- 
lence the details of a long scene of sorrow, I freely confess that, 
although this ill fortune came upon me quite unexpected, I had 
nevertheless fully merited this chastisement from the hand of 
God. 

It was now long since my lips had opened to prayer, except 
in those critical moments, when man, afflicted with sorrow and 
danger, addresses it, like the constrained prodigal, to a Parent 
compassionate, loving, and ever ready to listen to him. For 
a long time prayer and meditation had had no part in my daily 
occupation. Safe and contented, I had lain down to rest, and 
risen from a tranquil sleep without once thanking God for de- 
livering me from the many perils of the night. For a long 
time, slumbering in forgetfuiness, I had not thought that rarely 
does the approving flame of acceptance descend upon that sa- 
crifice of prayer, which is extorted from us in the hour of pe- 
ril ; and that man ought not, in his presumption, to look more 
for its acceptance than could Cain for his ill-chosen holocaust. 

" Every one that is godly shall pray unto Thee in a time 
when Thou mayst be found : surely in the floods of great waters 
they shall not come nigh unto Him." 

I had forgotten, that, though merciful, God is also just, and 
that, therefore, prayer is chiefly acceptable to Him, when, in 
the season of health and prosperity, it is the heart's unbidden 
offering at the shrine of gratitude. That he who erects not his 
fabric upon this basis, has his foundation on the sand which the 
winds and floods constantly threaten, and will finally annihi- 
late. 



MY CONFESSIONS. $Q5 



CHAPTER X. 



During the great despondency which oppressed me, in 
consequence of my disappointed expectations, I had the cou- 
rage to pen the following letter to my Zurich friends. 

" My Friends, 

" The obstinacy with which I refused to repay your advice 
by not hearkening to it — my wilfulness, instead of the docility, 
which was your due, likens me to the adder. I closed my ear 
to the voice that had warned me, and thus I have fallen into 
the snare/' 

[Here followed the detail of my actual situation : I thus 
concluded :] 

" I know that I have merited your reproof; but this I also 
know, that neither yourselves nor others can reproach me 
more bitterly than does my own heart. This, in addition to 
the long penance which must be mine while in England, for 
my foolish resistance to your wishes, will surely prove a suffi- 
cient chastisement for my fault, without the additional penalty 
of reproach from my friends, 

" I know you too well — I have too long read your hearts 
not to feel convinced that, though previously incensed against 
me, upon the the receipt of this detail of my ill fortune, you will 
relent and deeply sympathize with him, who is 

" Your's faithfully till death, 
" Guido." 

I soon received this answer : 



296 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" Dear Guido, 

(( If inexperience in the difficulties of this world were to be 
accounted a fault in man, then should we reprove your obsti- 
nacy, instead of sympathizing with you for the sufferings it 
seems to have entailed. But, since youth is seldom willing to 
oppose a barrier to the perils with which it is surrounded, 
while living in the world, and in intercourse with man, it 
would be unjust and cruel to reprove the want of that discre- 
tion, which can only result from a more matured wisdom. 

" If the conviction, that our friendship is so firmly rooted, 
that neither time nor even death can cancel it, may prove a 
solace in your present sorrows, rest assured, Guido ! that there 
are two individuals at Zurich, who know no perfect happiness, 
whilst yours is incomplete. 

" It would be useless to add more; for words can convey 
but a faint idea of what we feel for you, We wish you ivell, 
Guido ! You can comprehend these few words : and when 
you have glanced at the signature of this letter, you will re- 
cognize them as the earnest effusion of your 

" SINCERE FRIENDS" 

" P.S. — We enclose you a bill of exchange for twenty louis, 
not as a deduction from your capital, but as a gift which we 
entreat you to accept from those who are dear to you, 

" Quit London instantly, and return to Florence. Do 
this ; and so long as Providence shall prosper our commercial 
interests, you may rely in your necessities upon the support of 
those to whom you are more than a brother." 

As I traced the sweet characters of this letter, my heart was 
restored to peace ; but its postscript soon chased away the 
happy impression, and recalled me to sorrow. 

I snatched up my pen and wrote as follows : 

" Dearest Friends, 
"lam young, and, as you rightly observe, of a judgment 



MY CONFESSIONS. 297 

scarcely matured enough to withstand the perils we have to 
encounter in the world when in intercourse with men. Still, 
from what I have seen —and more, from what I have suffered — 
I feel myself entitled to declare that, in a world constituted like 
our own, there is in the success of men's projects so great, so 
irresistible a charm, that it seems adopted by them as the test 
bv which they estimate the merit of each aspiring candidate . 

" Thus it is that, in the eyes of men, he that is prosperous 
is also esteemed, celebrated, respected, beloved and accounted 
wise ; whilst the unsuccessful man is held as unworthy ; he is 
defamed, despised, rejected as an outcast, and pronounced to 
be either a fool or a rogue. 

" I am fully convinced that the Florentines have ever esti- 
mated me far beyond my merits- They have conceived the 
idea, that to Guido a vast and secure field would be opened in 
England, in which he must surely reap fame for himself, and 
confer glory upon his countrymen. 

11 But, though ordinarily enlightened and sound in their 
judgment, the Florentines are within the common pale of 
mortality. Like other sons of Adam, they possess hearts sus- 
ceptible alike of the passions and prejudices created by the 
corrupt atmosphere of an existence, which we all equally inhale. 

" ' What V would they exclaim at seeing me so soon returned 
from London, ' Guido come back, after only two months' resi- 
dence there ? Guido ill-received in the capital of the world? his 
talents neither valued nor patronised by the English — by the na- 
tion which is the most intelligent in Europe— the most learned 
and the most liberal ! — Heavens ! how have we been deceived 
in our estimate of his merits ! Poor fellow ! behold him returned 
to us ! — The English, who are not to be deceived, have sub- 
mitted his talents to their own test, and — at an ordeal which 
admits not of deceit — what we mistook for gold, has speedily 
shrunk on a contact with the touch-stone. How foolish must 
we have been to consider as substance that which was in reality 
but a shadow !' 

O 3 



£98 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" These and similar discourses, awakening the most humili- 
ating sentiments in my heart, would be the immediate, the 
inevitable consequence of my return to Florence. 

" Upon what friend — 'Upon what heart can I rely at 
Florence ? 

" ' Upon thy father — upon thy Cleofe ! — Would they not 
•suffice to Guido ?' I fancy I hear you both argue at Zurich. 

Sf But can I believe that you know so little of the human 
heart as to be ignorant, that the very feeling of compassion my 
father and sister would both entertain for my disappointment in 
England, must impair the love those dear cues have ever 
borne me ? — Upon what basis, indeed, is their abundant 
affection for me grounded ? — Not so much upon the persuasion 
that Guido was virtuous, as that he was endowed with talents 
likely to render him an ornament to himself ; an object of ad- 
miration or envy to others ; and a gem to ail who could boast 
of his affinity. Suppose this Guido had been born of a mean 
capacity : think you, they would have loved him with equal 
fervour ? Oh, no ! — Esteem is, with all men, the basis upon 
which they principally erect their love and friendship ! God 
alone can judge of His creatures unshackled by prejudices 
created by external circumstances, and find true merit in the 
simplicity and humility of the human heart. Man's criterion 
is erected upon outward display. Genius, with actions ap- 
parently noble, united with a mild and affable disposition, not 
only conciliates the good-will of our equals, but ensures their 
applause. 

" I doubt not that my father and sister would compassionate 
my disappointment : but think you, I am likely to rejoice in 
haying awakened that feeling? — -Oh no! — but yet more : so 
well do I know those two Florentine hearts, that I am confident, 
Guido would be to them much more estimable, if, amid the 
storm, he stretched forth his hand to assist at the helm, rather 
than avail himself of the slender bark which could save but one 
amongst a hundred. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 299 

" No, no, my dearest friends ! wrong me not by supposing 
I am cast down or disheartened. 



Yet still believe what now with truth I state, 

While conscience ne'er withholds her sweet applause. 

I'll bare rav breast to meet each shaft of fate !" 



Your faithful friend, 



GUIDO. 



P.S. — u I shall preserve your enclosure untouched until 
von indicate to me an opportunity of returning it. I do this, 
because I feel it to be a gift conditional upon my return to 
Florence, and for which I feel all the gratitude, of which you 
know my heart susceptible/' 



CHAPTER XL 



Soon after I had written this letter, an English family, re- 
siding in the country, happened to hear my name mentioned in 
connection with my actual suffering. 

They, whose hearts could well be reckoned among the blessed 
few of the old English fashion, w T hich are still left in this 
country, immediately wrote to the solitary exile, inviting him 
to repair to their hospitable dwelling. I did so without delay — 
and I was welcomed, at the gate of a magnificent villa, by a 
gentleman about sixty years of age, of a noble and venerable 
aspect. 

" Signor Sorelli 1" he exclaimed, shaking my hand with the 



300 MY CONFESSIONS. 

greatest warmth — -unlike the cold salutation, generally bestowed 
in England, of offering three stiff, reluctant fingers : if I cannot 
tell you how happy and how proud 1 feel in welcoming you to 
my house. I trust you will consider yourself quite at home 
here" 

He then, himself, led the way up stairs and ushered me into 
a room which had been set apart for me ; telling me, at the 
same time, that the bell I should hear in half an hour would 
be a summons to the dinner table, where I should find the 
family assembled. 

There was in this apartment not only all that comfort could 
suggest, but, combined with it, an elegance and luxurv often to 
be met with in the houses of the rich inhabitants of this golden 
isle. 

I confess to thee, Pellico, that my soul then saw, in this 
providential change of my situation, the hand of that God 
which humbles but to exalt. What thanks I returned at that 
moment, I cannot distinctly call to mind ; but a deep-felt 
gratitude rushed into my heart, such as I had never experienced 
before. 

The bell sounded, and, ushered by the footmen into the 
drawing-room, my host presented me to his wife, who advanced 
gracefully from a group of beautiful women — they are nearly 
all beautiful in England !— and, with a smile in her speaking 
eyes, not less expressive than that upon her lip. uttered several 
sweet words in her own language, but which 



"To hold them now unsaid were delicate 

E'en as the tongue with which they then were spoke." 



I was then introduced to each assembled guest, and dinner 
being announced, the fair hostess requested my escort to the 
dining-room, where at table I was installed in the post of 
honor at her left hand. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 301 

In the evening we had dancing and music, and I was re- 
quested to recite. This was followed by a slight repast, after 
which a general " good night" dismissed the guests to their 
respective apartments. 



CHAPTER XII. 



As the shadows and solitude of night exaggerate the 
features of the past day's misery, so do its stillness and loveli- 
ness invest with an additional charm each new-born happi- 
ness ! 

As I had passed in the course of a few hours from a scene of 
sorrow and distress to that of comfort and enjoyment, my 
feelings, bewildered as they were, had left me little room for 
reflections that day. But when the calm of solitude succeeded 
the excitement consequent upon so unlocked for an event — it 
was then that the stagnant current of thought began again to 
flow ; and, from its very interruption, rushed the more impe- 
tuously through my brain. 

Within my own chamber, I now thought of myself— of myself 
alone; whilst imagination, which creates a romance of our hearts 
— or rather, awakens the heart itself to romance— stepped in to 
adorn, to gild, to enamel my actual position with all the 
dazzling and fairy tints of poetry. 

But, in proportion as the present stood out, in my vision, 
rich in hope and promise, the more benificent did that Being 
appear, whose Divine hand had snatched me from the fearful 
precipice upon which I had so lately stood ; and the more in- 
tense was my gratitude towards Him, who, though invisible to 
mortality, makes His presence felt alike by all. 

Oh ! with what admiration ought we not to view the com- 



302 MY CONFESSIONS. 

passionate regulation of our Creator's benefits which are so 
proportioned to our wants ! 

Neither to be too much elated by prosperity, nor cast down by 
misfortune, but to bear the extremes of fortune with an uninter- 
rupted serenity of spirit ; ever intent on looking with calmness 
and faith to a future ; and, in all our transactions with man, to 
fix our thoughts upon God alone, who consoles and succours 
our infirmity, or inflicts trials that He may the more mercifully 
lead us to the Cross ; these are the only means by which we 
may enjoy perfect happiness even in this world ! 



CHAPTER XIII. 



Could I have forgotten that I was far from the land of my 
birth, towards which the heart ever yearns with an undying 
affection, it would have been here, in this charming spot, upon 
the banks of the Thames, in the dwelling of my hospitable and 
courteous friends. 

A brother and sister could not have lavished upon me 
more affection than I experienced from them ; w T hilst the lovely 
and picturesque country which surrounded me, operated 
upon ray heart with a sweet magic of feeling, making me 
enjoy the present moment, and look forward with hope to the 
future. 

Trees are every where to be found ; these and other works 
of nature, have features of general resemblance in different 
countries ; so that, a foreigner when residing in the interior, 
is removed from a contemplation of the strange forms of build- 
ing and other contrasts that startle him in first arriving in a 
strange land. 

If, therefore, he meet with kindness and friendship beneath 
the roof which he occupies, illusion is easy ; and, if he possesses 



MY CONFESSIONS. 303 

the faintest spark of poetical imagination, he may look on the 
poplars in England — although appearing to him widowed in 
the absence of the vine — and fancy them those of his own 
" Bel Paese," whither he may transport himself, in an instant, 
on the wings of thought, and feel nothing wanting to his hap- 
piness. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Oh, how sweet, yet sad, it is to retrace the pages of our past 
existence ! 

But, notwithstanding the sadness with which a self-examina- 
tion ever impresses us ; notwithstanding the discouraging 
picture reality ever presents ; not one passage of my life has 
repassed before me, in which I have not marked the stamp of a 
Maker's hand, who so benevolently humbleth Himself to 
behold the things that are in Heaven and earth, and taketh up 
the simple out of the dust — of Him who, though he may 
appear to have no part in our terrestrial movements, is the 
main-spring, the regulator of each hour-glass, and in His own 
good time makes us feel that He is so. . . .He, who seldom 
makes His works manifest to man,- at the moment of their 
operation ; but leaves the glorious, indelible and undoubted 
trace of His interference upon the mind of him, who — 



" Forth from the shore he hath so lately won, 
Still panting with his toil, reviews the flood, 
And marvels at the perils he hath run '" 



304 MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER XV. 



To become the eulogist of these friends would be indeed a 
grateful task to my feelings; but as I am sure they love not the 
pomp of display, preferring rather to veil their good actions 
from the glare of day, I fear I should give offence in making 
them publicly the subject of my praise. I therefore restrain 
my feelings. But since the title of my book admits not of the 
slightest ambiguity on my part, and, lest my position may not 
be clearly understood, I must be permitted to reveal the circum- 
stances upon which I continued to reside with these friends. 

Each morning I gave a lesson of two hours in Italian to mv 
fair hostess ; the rest of the day was at my own disposal. For 
this service I was compensated by my residence in the house, 
where I was already treated as one of the family, and further 
I received every Saturday, the sum of ten shillings. I re- 
mained with this charming family a year and a half ; and there 
I might have continued so long as I had chosen to dwell in 
England. But, agreeable as my sojourn then was, I had the 
resolution to terminate it, somewhat suddenly, of my own ac- 
cord. I felt that the very calmness of the sea of existence 
upon which my bark was floating, was a state of inaction little 
consonant with my aspirations. 

Amongst the delights of this villa, I found that of a magni- 
ficent library. Here then the study of .the English language 
became my sole occupation, nay, my whole pleasure. 

During six months I had not only studied the Vicar of 

Wakefield, but read with much attention Thomson's and Pope's 

works. 

So much was I delighted with the " Essay on Man," that I 

ventured to translate it into Italian verse, not from any fame 
I hoped to acquire from the performance, but to render the 
original more my own. 

The feeling of gratification which I experienced in perusing 
Milton's works, is one I am never weary of recalling. Twenty 



MY CONFESSIONS. S05 

times did I read "Paradise Lost/' and each time with renewed, 
with more wondering delight. 

Oh ! how might Homer, Tasso and Dante descend from 
their proud eminence ; that Dante, too, who, so inebriated with 
himself, ranks himself immediately behind Homer, Lucan, Ho- 
race, Ovid and Virgil, calling himself 

" The sixth amongst the wise," 

that Dante, who, in his Purgatory, after having so artfully, 
but well said, 

" Oh vain is human glory, briefly shed, 
Ere man beholds its blushing verdure fled." 

And elsewhere, 

" Fame here below is but the zephyr's breath, 
Now sportive here, now borne on other tides, 
And changing name with each fresh victim's death." 

Then adding more haughtily 

" Thus Guido from his namesake proudly bore 
The laurels he so late triumphant wove ; 
But now perchance another light hath shown, 
A brighter glory, which must veil their own." 

Thus proclaiming himself the superior light, which was to 
eclipse the fame of the Florentine " Guido Cavalcanti," an ex- 
cellent poet and philosopher, as his talents had previously ob- 
scured those of " Guido Guinicelli," a Bolognese poet much 
esteemed in his time. How might these gifted individuals 
then, I repeat, descend from their lofty eminence to give place 
to Milton, so much more deserving of occupying their proud 
pinnacle of fame ! 

His inspirations are not drawn from the lyre of Orpheus, 



306 MY CONFESSIONS. 

nor gathered from the flowers of Pindus, nor from the awaken- 
ing flood of Helicon. 

Milton's spirit conferred with Keaven alone ; and the muse 
of his inspiration was the Holy Ghost. The world was to him 
an unwritten page : and, had his soul's flights been arrested by 
this world's contemplations, he would have been no longer a 
poet ! 

It is remarkable that, though Milton's works figure in every 
library in England, there are thousands of English — I have 
had the confession from the English themselves — who have 
never read Paradise Lost, or never finished it if they had com- 
menced the perusal ; whilst, on the other hand, those very. same 
people — I will not say read, but actually devour the hundreds of 
novels which issue from the press every year, and for which 
the English seem in this century, to be quite mad ; the pass- 
ing of idle hours, being the only purpose of their reading 
productions which, with the exception of some of Sir Walter 
Scott's, and a few other eminent writers, since his day, are 
idle tales, whose delusions produce but a momentary excite- 
ment, without creating the deeper feeling that we expe- 
rience upon reading a talented work, by which the mind be- 
comes enlightened and we rise better men from the contem- 
plation. 

The title " novel" is now-a-days a great recommendation to 
a book in England ; and the first edition is often sold, on its 
first publication, even before the book is read ; whilst those un- 
happy authors, whose works are only on serious or moral sub- 
jects, if they have the imprudence to publish them themselves, 
run the hazard of being ruined by their well intended efforts to 
benefit their fellow-creatures. 

Thus, dear Pellico ! you see that even the English have the 
leaven of humanity in their natures, and thou knowest mankind 
too well to imagine that " Guido Sorelli" has fallen here 
amongst angels. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 307 



CHAPTER XVI. 



Providence is the load-stone, which, amid the storm, still 
points to the pole, guiding and protecting the distressed ma- 
riner. 

Providence is the sweet link of universal union : but it was 
Providence that now awakened another tempest, to break in 
upon the calm that I had enjoyed but for so short a period ! 
Our Creator makes use of tribulation in order to draw the mind 
of His creature towards him. 

Ill can our corrupted nature comprehend that this is the 
effect of His divine love. But it is too true, that sorrow alone 
can wean man from the love of this world, which, the viler it 
appears, the more does man become enamoured of it. 

Man's affections are more deeply rooted to this earth than 
the oak ; and tremendous indeed must be that storm which can 
eradicate them. 

Great was my sorrow — bitter my lamentation — on receiving 
the following letter : 

" Dear Signor Guido, 

" Fearful that some rude hand might inflict upon you a 
mortal blow, by communicating to you tidings not less fatal 
than unexpected, I have made it my duty, though a most pain- 
ful one, to impart to you the sad intelligence. 

" My beloved wife, and your friend, has passed to a better 
world ! You, who knew her so well, can alone estimate how 
deep, how irreparable is her loss to me ! 

" But, if, under such circumstances, any consolation is ad- 
missable, it is only to be obtained by knowing how our departed 
friends did wing their flight from this miserable world ! Come 
then, dear Sorelli ! come with me to that fount, and even you 
may find alleviation in your sorrow, as I have found in my own. 



308 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" For the last six months an internal decline had been gra- 
dually destroying* my dear wife. 

"The most skilful men in Zurich have been called in to her 
aid, not from her own desire, but to satisfy the anxiety of my- 
self and those around her, whose happiness depended so en- 
tirely upon her existence and well-being. But no advice or 
prescriptions of her physicians, were of any effect. Her parents 
then sent her into the family of a physician in the country, 
whose reputation stands the highest in Switzerland, and who 
is known to have completely restored the most apparently 
hopeless invalids. But all his remedies were insufficient to re- 4 
store her declining strength. After a residence of two months 
with them, therefore, to which she had submitted from obe- 
dience and affection to those around her, she returned to Zu- 
rich ; and declared her resolution not to accept any farther 
medical aid, but to resign to God alone the brief or protracted 
duration of her existence. 

" She gradually faded, but to the astonishment of every one, 
her mind continued to preserve its healthy, well directed, 
vigilant and angelic tone. 

" Not more than two days after her first attack, she said to 
me : ' You behold in me, dear V. the shadow of the dead ! 
My part in this world is finished, and I thank God for it. If 
instead of thirty, God had permitted me to number seventy 
summers, I doubt whether I had then obeyed His summons so 
willingly ; if I had not then found it more difficult to die.' 

" In vain I sought to encourage her, and to chase from her 
mind the presages and the image of death. She replied to me 
by a smile, whose expression I shall never forget, the memory 
of which will never cease to fill my heart with anguish. — 

" ' No ! death is here /' she said, putting her hand upon 
her heart, ' whoever has felt it here, has never yet been de- 
ceived, and may, indeed, say I am dead /' 

" The last three months of her life she employed in reading 
what was delightful, edifying and instructive ; whrst, though 
each month, each week, each day, and at length each hour 



MY CONFESSIONS. 809 

beheld her weaker, she never wholly confined herself to her 
bed. 

" To the last moment of her existence, she desired to be sur- 
rounded by the few friends whom she had most esteemed. 
Every day she devoted to solitude some hours, which she em- 
ployed in meditation, in prayer, and in making all the prepara- 
tions for her funeral. 

k ■ She cut out, and with her own hands made the habiliments 
in which she desired to be buried. 

'* It was her strict desire that not one lock should be cut 
from her beautiful hair, and that neither should it be visible 
to any who might come to see her after her death; and 
it was her last wish, that she might be buried with a crucifix 
in one hand, and in the other, a passion-flower. 

" Three days before her death, she became sensible of the 
ne:essity of resigning herself to the care of those who loved 
her, as she had already to that of her Maker. 

" Sitting up in bed, therefore, she once more put herself 
into the hands of her physicians. 

"The greatest skill, the most intense, the most unwary ing 
watchfulness, love, friendship, prayer, all was ineffectual. God 
willed her to Himself. 

- ' The day of her death, she had slept tranquilly during the 
greater part of the morning. At mid-day she awoke suddenly, 
and uttered the most piercing cry of anguish : ' Alas !' she ex- 
claimed, ' am I still on this bed of suffering !' 

"We were instantly at her side essaying every means of 
consoling her. But that consolation, which we were unable 
to have administered, was at her heart, which had ever been 
the tabernacle of love to God and benevolence to her fellow- 
creatures. She instantly became calm ; and turning towards 
me with a countenance which seemed already irradiated by a 
seraphic expression, 

" ' I dreamed,' she said that I was in Greece; and that I was 
borne softly along the flowery path of a beautiful garden, where 
stood a lovely and cool abode. 



310 MY CONFESSIONS. 

• 

" ' A thousand different trees were there, all laden with 
such sweet enchanting fruit, that the heart seemed to be filled 
with inexpressible delight in gazing on it. Fountains, issuing 
from innumerable streams, bathed their drooping branches. 
The meandering walks ; the luxuriant hedges crowned with 
the green and clustering vine ; the sweet music of the foun- 
tains, the rich meadows decked with a thousand varieties 
of flowers, which all so exquisite, so blooming and so gay, 
turned towards the rising sun, as though to thank him for 
that mysterious virtue, which, penetrating where daylight 
could never penetrate, had given them life ; and yet more 
the pure and spiritual forms which wandered through these 
gardens, all this had so entranced my soul, that waking 
and finding myself still on the brink of death and of an 
anguished separation from him I love — I have experienced — to 
my humiliation — a momentary overthrow of that resignation, 
wnich I had hoped was placed upon a rock not to be moved. 
But thanks to God ! I am once more resigned ; and may His 
will be done — the will of my Maker !' 

" She ceased speaking ; I held her hand in mine; but I 
had neither tears nor words to reply to her. 

u In a very few minutes the hand which had faintly held 
mine, relaxed by degrees its gentle pressure. 

<s I placed it gently upon her heart. 

" At this movement she turned upon me a look of affection, 
as though in acknowledgment of the action. She then raised 
her beautiful eyes to heaven, and closing them by degrees, 
breathed her last sigh without the least token of pain, 
whilst we stood around her still unconscious that her soul 
had departed. 

" Blessed be her happy spirit ! 

" Let us revere her memory, dear Sorelli! Let us shed 
upon her tomb the tears of christian resignation. Let us 
imitate her virtue, her piety ; and we shall meet again in 
God. 

" Your faithful but afflicted 

" FRIEND. " 



MY CONFESSIONS. 311 

P.S. — " The reasons you urge, against your return to Flo- 
rence, are forcible and reasonable. Alas, clear Guido ! once 
more are you launched upon a broad sea. But the hand of 
a divine Providence is not less protecting — not less infallible 
upon the waters of the ocean than it would have proved 
to you when dwelling in your beautiful Florence. 

" The twenty louis I last enclosed you in my bill of ex- 
change, is the bequest of my deceased wife to you, who just 
before her death begged me to recall her to your remembrance ; 
and to tell you, that your last letter had convinced her you 
had chosen that only path by which you could resist the thorns 
of. this world, and reap those roses, which, nourished by 
a Creator's smile, never had withered or never could fade. 

" We are told the prayers of the sorrowful are ever ac- 
ceptable to God :— and mine are, that God may be ever 
present with you, in you and for you." 



CHAPTER XVII. 

Pellico, you can imagine how severe a blow this letter must 
have been to the heart of your unknown friend ! but you will also 
acknowledge that God prostrates the flesh but to its purifi- 
cation ; that He strikes the human frame but to the healing 
of its enshrined soul. 

It chanced, that on the day I received this letter 5 the 
friends with whom I was residing were in town. I was 
consequently alone, without one living soul at hand to whom 
I could communicate my sorrow, or from whom I might 
receive consolation or sympathy in my grief. 

I shed no tear — I was unable to weep. I could only 



312 MY CONFESSIONS. 

exclaim : " Ah woe is me ! for nought else do I dwell in 
this world but to encounter grief each day more cruel than 
the last ! What have I not already suffered during my pil- 
grimage ? but it is not yet enough : and now, behold me 
to-day prostrated by a blow severer than I have ever yet ex- 
perienced !" 

A fearful oppression lay at my heart. I walked forth into 
the garden. The weather was delicious : the sun shone in 
all the magnificence of its first day of splendor : the grass 
looked so green ! the innumerable flowers were all so fragrant, 
so smiling, so gay ! Just heaven ! what a fearful contrast 
was this external picture to that which reigned within me ! 
It seemed as though the sun shone upon me in mockery of 
my wretchedness, rendering the gloom, in which I stood en- 
shrouded, more palpable to my heart. The very flowers 
appeared to smile in derision of me, making a cruel display 
of their gaiety, only to contrast more painfully my misery, 
and to render more poignant the thorn that had transfixed 
my heart. So that, unlike the virtuous man, who never suffers 
himself to be proudly inflated by prosperity, or basely dejected 
by adversity, I became like the enraged mastiff, who turns 
to bite the unconscious stone that has wounded him. 

The sun, and the flowers became hateful to me in my moody 
state of mind ; and, with a resentful spirit, I quitted the gar- 
dens, choosing rather to enclose myself within a confined 
apartment than endure any longer the prospect of the beautiful 
blue ether, with its kindly zephyrs so fresh and so lovely, yet 
so torturing to my heart. 

I re-entered the house : but I did not again seek thy own 
chamber, where I had received and read the late fatal in- 
telligence, but wandered into the drawing-room with a mind 
not less turbulent and irritated now, than it had been before 
sorrowful. 

" Why was I bora to suffer thus?" I mentally ejaculated. 
"Why should I be denied a small portion of those consola- 



MY CONFESSIONS. 3]S 

tions which form the happiness of the millions that surround 
me ? Am I worse than other men that I have merited these 
inflictions ? And is this the justice of God ?" 

I had concluded the exordium of what I had proposed 
to be a very long discourse, composed of the ravings of so- 
phistry, when my eye fell upon a quarto volume which lay 
upon a table close to me. 

The sight of this object checked my speech, though it did 
not abate my irritation. I fancied it was the Bible. It was 
the Bible, and my resentment increased. The father of 
wickedness, ever at hand, stole a ray from this celestial light, 
and, converting it into one of infernal brightness, urged me, 
with a smile of contempt and anger upon my lip, to open this 
sacred volume, solely in the hope that it might assist my 
declamation against the deceit of man, and the injustice of 
God. 

" Thou fool ! this night shall thy soul be required of thee: 
then whose shall those things be which thou hast provided ?" 
was the passage that a stern but merciful Providence pre- 
sented to my contemplation. 

" This world's riches I" I exclaimed, with a heart, whose 
anger was now superseded by anguish — a wholesome — a ne- 
cessary anguish. " This world's riches ! my much lamented 
friend had riches ! but have they been able to save her ? No, 
no ! the friend of Guido is dead !" 

I burst into a torrent of tears : my heart became softened ; 
and throwing myself with my face to the earth, I felt that I 
was less than nothing, and asked for mercy. 

Yes ! I demanded that mercy which is the right hand of 
Christ, who said : " Knock, and it shall be opened unto you : 
Seek and you shall find :" that mercy whu;h is the forerunner 
of prayer, the hope of the wretched, and deals not with us 
after our misdeeds : who, like the iris, shines more glo- 
riously in the thicker and darker clouds. 

Yes ! I demanded tbat mercy, which, though unfelt by 
myself, had long been showed to me, but which now for the 

p 



314 MY CONFESSIONSo 

first time made itself heard in these sweet accents within my 
heart : "Be of good courage, unhappy Guido, I am with 
thee !" 

I rose from the earth another being. -Oh! degraded 
spirit !" I exclaimed, " thou knowest not how to suffer, be- 
cause thou hast never known how to hope ! Happy she, 'who 
is snatched from this world, and hath finished her course 
of suffering ! She hath ever loved the Lord, and is now 
enjoying the beatitude prepared for those who have loved 
Him. And should I envy her that felicity ? Oh no ! Alone 
and sorrowful, I may mourn upon her tomb : yet, could I 
by a breath recall her spirit to its beautiful earthly taber- 
nacle, I would not exert that power ! Oh no— let me rather 
bow in submission to the will of the Most High !" 

The peace which man derives from resignation to the decree 
of heaven was now awakened within my heart. 

I now opened the first page of the Bible, that book which 
I had never yet but partially perused ; and, on my knees, 
asked for grace to read it with humility of spirit. I asked 
the assistance of the Holy Ghost ; I 'prayed that my life 
might be prolonged, so far at least, that I might reach the 
last page of this holy book, which I felt would prove an 
impenetrable shield against the assaults of the evil one, and 
would awaken my soul to the serene dawn of that day of 
beatitude in heaven, which knows neither darkness nor night. 

This done, I rose from my knees, and read its sacred con- 
tents, that day, for an hour. Oh, blessed moments !— the 
happiest— the most fortunate of my existence ! Oh, bene- 
ficent Creator, how merciful and how just are Thy ways ! 



MY CONFESSIONS. 315 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



Behold, Silvio, a chain of circumstances, all equally- 
unavoidable, painful, and miraculous, impelling your friend 
to open the Bible, with the arrogance of an unbeliever, over 
whose thoughts a demon ever sits president ; and, in all the 
pride of censorship, ready to pronounce it a composition at once 
obscure, contradictory, and false ; when, lo ! in the first page 
which presents itself to his impious research, he beholds his 
own condemnation : hears himself proclaimed a sinner, an 
enemy to God and a son of the grave ! 

And now, Silvio, behold a new era in your friend's existence! 
Behold Providence dissolving the spell of his past and most 
severe troubles ; behold the rock of life within his reach, and 
Guido for the first time climbing up its acclivity ! 

Having devoted an hour every morning to the perusal of 
the sacred volume for three months, I at length reached its 
last page. 

Never did I open it without first imploring for humility in 
its perusal; and each day I felt more disposed to admire, 
to love that which I read Having soon become aware, that 
God had declared the re were in His service mysteries which 
man is not permitted to penetrate, I paused not to speculate 
upon those passages which seemed to present to the under- 
standing insuperable difficulties, and which were involved in 
profound obscurity. 

As I felt that those difficulties result no less from the 
majesty of the subjects involved, such as incarnation, regene- 
ration, resurrection, immortality , than from the weakness of the 
faculties employed in their investigation I resolved to mark in the 
margin of my own Bible all those passages which had sunk 
deeply into my heart, and to return to their study, as long 
, as I should be permitted to live. 

P 2 



Sl6 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" But let Guido be more explicit. What was the final 
result of his perusal of a volume prohibited by the pope to 
all Roman Catholics ?" 

This I imagine to be the demand of my beloved country- 
men. — Dearest friends ! Friends of my heart ! Behold the re- 
sult ! — I there learnt that, " If a man think himself to be 
something, when he is nothing, he deceiveth himself." 

I was compelled to confess myself a rebel to reason and to 
my Maker : that I had been the slave of my own passions, 
and that, unassisted by God, I was totally incapable of doing 
good. I felt that I had been the tortoise ever struggling 
to free itself from its oppressive scales, and ever unsuccessful ; 
that I was like the snow which the rays of the sun can melt, 
but never warm ; the stone, which, though plunged in the 
water, never softens ; the polypus, which rather than quit its 
parent rock, is content to be cut in pieces ; the briar, which 
shakes its leaves, but never its thorns ! 

A contemplation so fearful filled my heart with humility — 
that celestial gift, which is to every human virtue what the 
root is to the plant : and humility then awakened within my 
heart gratitude towards God ; who, like a tender Father, had 
forborne to punish or to crush the sinner, but had awaited 
the prodigal's return* *• 

Finally I learnt that, as St. Augustin affirms, the Bible ia 
a book inaccessible to the wisdom of the proud of all gene- 
rations, a two-edged sword — a volume, which while it emits 
a vivifying light every where, can yet send forth a vengeful 
darkness— a volume, the wholesome and spiritual food of which 
the pride of the self-styled wise turns into poison. In short, 
a volume, far from instructing the proud, turns their wisdom 
to foolishness and shows the true light only to the humble. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 317 



CHAPTER XIX. 

There is not a more incontrovertible proof, that our ex- 
istence is the gratuitous gift of a Creator, than the evidence 
that the consent of man does not co-operate with his birth. 

Some are born to dwell in a cottage ; others to move in 
a more elevated sphere of action. Some are destined to dwell 
in palaces ; others, to a kingdom's rule. A very few, by the 
inspiration of genius, adorn their station by acts proceeding 
from its divine emanations. The many, occupy a state of 
mediocrity, neither knowing nor possessing much ; a position 
which, from its very exemption from the envy of others, is 
perhaps the most desirable, as it ensures the greatest blessing in 
a span so limited as our own— namely peace ; whilst the ma- 
jority awaken into existence with minds so impenetrably closed 
against the admission of any thing like true knowledge, that 
the ablest instruction would probably be ineffectual if employed 
upon them ; or, indeed, were its entrance effected, it might 
bG at the expense of that lethargic content which it is so 
peculiarly the privilege of the ignorant to enjoy. 

That he should be born in this station or in that, is not 
within man's option to decide. His position in life, therefore, 
is also the gift or the absolute will of his Maker. 

But equally indisputable with the fact, that no two human 
countenances ever exactly resembled each other, is the cer- 
tainty, that never did the heart and judgment of one man 
bear a strict accordance with that of another upon the subject 
of this world's views. 

Hence then, we may fairly conclude, that from the hour of 
his birth, man has his own exclusive path assigned him, which 
he, and he only can adopt ; that the path, which heaven marks 
out to each, is as different, as men are from each other, and 



SIS MY CONFESSIONS. 

that the paths are as numerous as mankind have ever been or 
ever will be. Each finds in his route one perpetual alter- 
nation of calms and tempests — of clouds and sunshine — of 
light and darkness — of music and discord. Each individual 
has always before him a road parting in two : but beneath the 
never fading hues of a rain- bow of light, he always may, on 
his right hand, trace the indications of the road to Paradise 
while, on the left, he cannot fail to perceive this obscure 
inscription i 

Thy guide alike 'mid realms of woe, 

Where sorrow never dies, 
I'll lead thee whither spirits go, 

That dare not seek the skies." 

But, although the consent of man does not co-operate with 
his birth, nor with the selection of the path through which he 
is to pursue life's brief journey — a path determined by cir- 
cumstances, which, unforeseen and uncontrollable, stamp the 
destiny of each of us — each human being endowed with intel- 
lect, possessed of a mind capable of distinguishing good and 
evil, and of making his choice of either ; he is left entirely free 
to make that selection according to the whispers of his con- 
science — a conscience which God has planted within man's 
breast, to be his judge, his witness, his silent accuser, his in- 
nate guide — a conscience, which if not the presiding power 
alike of his heart and intellect, becomes either the silent 
scourge of the sinner, whom it had warned to avoid the 
left-hand path of destruction, or prepares the flowery couch 
upon which innocence so sweetly reposes. The impulse which 
dictated the sudden resolution I am about to relate, will clearly 
illustrate the truth of my observations. 

It chanced one morning, during my residence in the villa of 
my dear friends, that I awoke much earlier than my accustomed 
hour. The sun was yet below the horizon, but the varying hues, 
which now began faintly to tremble at the eastern edge of the 



MY CONFESSIONS. 319 

sweet blue ether, announced an unusually splendid rise of the 
great orb of day, in such a climate as that of England. 

As I stood on the floor of my apartment, an involuntary 
question sprang to my lips, " what has made me quit my bed 
so much earlier than usual ?" 

"To London ! to London ! 9 ' was my heart's response, "thou 
hast dwelt long enough in indolence in this beautiful villa, in 
this sweet village, on the banks of the superb Thames. Re- 
member Guido, 

" Fame is a Goddess rarely to be won 

When man his race in pillowed ease doth run ; 
And he who dies unliallow'd by her breath 
Leaves in the world's dull memory such a trace 
As ocean's quenched foam, or vapour's death !" 

" Behold thyself now master of the English language, and, 
by the sweat of thine own brow, possessed of a purse of fifty 
guineas. With these advantages, it would be vile, it would 
be ungrateful, to remain longer a burthen to thy friends ; for, 
though the benevolence of their nature would prompt them to 
desire thv continuance with them, yet they would applaud the 
proud and generous impulse which had led thee to seek, in the 
capital of the world, thy fortune in literature, to render thyself 
more worthy of their friendship, and to endeavour to obtain 
such a degree of excellence, that the trace of thy footsteps 
may hereafter be known in the land of the stranger/ 5 

Here was an impulse, of which not even a shadow of its 
coming had warned me the day before. It was the pebble 
flung into the lake's centre agitating its still waters into a 
thousand circles, each cf which, more vast, more extended than 
the last, kiss its very shores ere it has subsided into tranquillity. 
Here was one of those events which, in my opinion, man can 
neither co-operate with nor can he turn aside. 

"To London! without further delay !" I exclaimed in 
obedient echo of the voice within me. 

By this time the sun had commenced its rise above the hori- 



320 MY CONFESSIONS. 

zon, when suddenly prostrating myself, as I gazed on this mag- 
nificent and ever novel spectacle of nature, T recited throughout 
that splendid psalm commencing, " The heavens declare the 
glory of the Lord !'' 

A sentiment of warmth, of strength, of courage, took pos- 
session of my heart, such as I had never before experienced. 
" Oh fountain of goodness ! oh Providence divine I" I involun- 
tarily exclaimed, softening into tears, " it is Thou alone, who 
hast awakened within me this sudden resolution. I obey Thee, 
though I know not whither it may lead me. But I pray Thee 
to vouchsafe me, in this yet untried career, ardour and energy 
to persevere in it ; gratitude and humility in prosperity ; and in 
disappointment, calmness and resignation. " 

The sun now rode higher in heaven confirming the young 
day in its beauty. On entering the breakfast room where my 
friends had already assembled, I loudly exclaimed, " To Lon- 
don ! to London ! I am going to London I" 

" Why, Guido Sorelli, what is the matter with you ? why do 
you not wish us good morning ? are you mad?" enquired my 
friend's wife, opening her expressive eyes to their extent, in sur- 
prize at my demeanour, a feeling perhaps not wholly unmingled 
with distrust as to the degree of sanity of which I could at that 
moment boast. 

" No ! no ! I am not mad, my sweet friends !" I replied 
shaking the hands of them both ; and assuming my accustomed 
seat at the table, I continued, " an unbidden impulse frcm my 
heart, has this morning suggested to me that the part, Provi- 
dence has willed I should enact in this happy dwelling, is now 
completed ; that London is the place on the lists next assigned 
me and whither I must repair without delay. To disobey tins 
impulse, I feel, would be impossible ; for I am convinced that 
God not only makes Himself heard in the heart of man, but 
that He there manifests Himself; that every noble and beautiful 
thought which emanates from the heart, and all the virtuous ac- 
tions which the heart suggests, are nothing else than the voice 
of the Creator speaking within us. To tremble at the pros- 



MY CONFESSIONS. 321 

pect of difficulties which must be overcome, ere the desired ob- 
ject is attained, bespeaks a degradation of soul ; whilst to re- 
main deaf to His voice is at least ingratitude, if it be not actual 
impiety. 

" Our existence is too limited to admit of our remaining too 
long in the same position. Variety is necessary to us. After 
long living amid an unwholesome and mortal atmosphere a 
change of air, even though it be to one less salutary, often 
effects what the physician desires, so does a change of situa- 
tion, whenever it is undertaken with noble and exalted feelings, 
call down the approbation and blessing of Heaven. 

" If now in the vigor of my existence I put not my hand to 
the plough, how can I expect to reap the harvest which my 
hope would create ? No, no ! in this period of my life I must 
not be inactive. My sail is set, and though my bark may seem 
humble in her equipment, she may be the sounder to encounter 
any adverse gale and to withstand the wreck of an angry sea. 
The tranquillity of my ocean, the kindly breath of the zephyr, 
who watches over the inexperienced navigator, the serenity of 
Heaven, all now invite me to embark and to give my sail to 
the winds, and, with my eye fixed steadily on that one never 
setting star, to commit my course to my Maker's guid- 
ance." 

"Whether it be prudent or not, to follow this impulse of 
vour heart, I am incapable of deciding, 1 ' replied my friend af- 
fectionately but very seriously, " and, indeed, did I think my- 
self competent to the judgment, I should yet hesitate to pro- 
nounce it, as it has ever been my maxim, that, in cases of such 
a nature the individual, to whom the alternative presents itself, 
is the best judge. 

" Each has his part to act in this world, and each part has 
its limits > The limits of mine, dear Sorelii, permit me to re- 
peat what I have so often assured you, that so long as a resi- 
dence with us, seems compatible with your interest and happi- 
ness, our house shall be yours, and we shall be delighted with 
your presence ; but should a shadow of doubt awaken within 

P 3 



322 MY CONFESSIONS, 

your mind as to the advantage of your present position, whe- 
ther as regards your interest or happiness, I shall be the first 
to advise you to quit your friends, and to seek that spot 
where you fancy you may render yourself more worthy of 
those who already esteem you ; more serviceable to your father ; 
more independent in your own estimation ; and, affording a no- 
bler example both to your contemporaries and to posterity. 

f( Well, Guido ScreHi," my friend resumed, with a serene 
countenance, " to-morrow I shall go to London to engage 
apartments for us for six weeks . Thither, in company with 
your friends, you are to make your triumphal entry, yes ! into 
the capital of the world. Those six weeks you must remain 
with us, after which you will enter upon your new career of 
independence and enterprize- — one ever to be honoured. What 
think you of my arrangements, Signore ?" 

" Worthy of my excellent friends !" 

The following day my friend returned from London, and ac- 
quainted us, that he had engaged commodious apartments 
for us in New Bond Street ; and the next day at twelve 
o'clock, in company with my two friends, who must ever re- 
tain my best wishes, I once more entered that city — Europe's 
queen — with a manuscript under my arm, bat in a guise more 
resembling that of an independent gentleman than of a poet. 



CHAPTER XX. 



" And what could be the manuscript that Guido Sorelli held 
under his arm V I fancy I hear some of my more impatient 
readers exclaim. 

The solution of this mystery shall be the reward of those 
alone who are possessed of sufficient perseverance to continue 
the perusal of my book. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 323 

The termination of my six weeks' sojourn with my friends in 
New Bond Street, had now arrived. With a warm shake of 
the hand, accompanied with sincere expressions for my pros- 
perity on their side, and promises on mine to visit them in 
future, whenever my occupations would permit, I beheld them 
step into their carriage, which was to carry them once more to 
their own home, whilst I repaired to No. 9, Great Russel 
Street, Bloomsbury Square, where I had engaged for myself an 
apartment upon the second floor. 

Upon awakening the next morning in my hired lodging, 
an unusual feeling of happiness seemed to possess my heart. 
How noble, how lovely a sentiment is that of independence ! 

Persuaded as I now was of the value of time, and of the 
necessity of my taking advantage of every moment, I resolved 
that morning to repair to Dulau's Library in Soho Square. 

I accordingly went then, and offered my manuscript. Before 
the title even of my work had been mentioned, the manager 
of that house refused to purchase it. 

Experience had made me learned in matters of this nature, 
and had taught me also not to look for more liberality at the 
hands of a French Bookseller, than that I had received from 
the publisher of my Sappho at Florence. Not at all discouraged, 
I determined to publish my rejected work on my own account ; 
and accordingly carried it to the house of Schulze, the printer, 
in Poland Street. 

Schulze sounded like a German name, and he proved to be a 
German. It seemed as though destiny had willed that my 
dealings should ever be with Germans ! 

At the expiration of three weeks, the printer had completed 
his task ; and the English critics announced to the literary 
world— 

POPE'S ESSAY ON MAN; 

TRANSLATED INTO ITALIAN BLANK VERSE, 

BY GUIDO SORELLI, 

OF FLORENCE. 



S24 MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER XXI. 



To be compelled to remove from house to house, and to 
discover fresh sources of disgust in each succeeding one, was 
the destiny, dear PeUico, of Guido Sorelli for many years of his 
residence in this immense capital, which I will not call a (< city/' 
but rather a (t city within a city.'"' 

How rarely is man accurate in his judgment of his fellow - 
mortals ! But how is it possible he should be so ? He who is 
ever deceived in his own self -judgment ! 

The sad and degrading treatment, to which I found myself 
exposed in the hired apartments of Loudon,, so embittered my 
spirit at first that, with a very small reservation, I pronounced 
England to be destitute of generosity. Simpleton that I was ! 
Shut up within a hired lodging, unknown, unsought by the 
circle of a nation, where I then stood a cipher, how durst I 
arrogate to myself the privilege of pronouncing a judgment 
upon the English, whose character, of all nations in Europe, is 
the most difficult to decipher ! But what shall I say in ex- 
tenuation of my injustice ? Shall I plead man's universal 
failing ? Shall I say that each of us thinks according to his 
own method, and that every mas according to the im- 

pulse of his thoughts : Yes ! every one believes himself a 
Moses to give laws, and a Caesar to command ; and he who 
by a stern reality is identified with a class destined to servitude 
and obedience, hates himself for so base an admission, and 
strives to blind himself to the truth. In this world no one 



MY CONFESSIONS. 325 

would be subservient. All would be tyrants ; and, more or 
less, we are all tolerably successful. 



«■■ 



CHAPTER XXIL 



It happened, at this period, that my embittered spirit was 
somewhat softened by the Literary Gazette which was pleased 
to announce to the public in terms sufficiently flattering, that 
there was in London one Guido, Sorelli, who had just trans- 
lated in Italian blank verse " Pope's Essay on Man." It 
was soon after this announcement that, walking one day very 
thoughtfully in Fleet Street, I felt myself forcibly arrested by 
the arm, close to Johnson's Court. By nature somewhat 
irritable, I felt so indignant at this want of ceremony in 
thus bespeaking my attention, that, turning hastily round, 
I resolved, even had I beheld my brother, to reprove him 
in somewhat severe terms, for offering me so rough a proof 
of his proximity. But the appearance of the dear little 
old man, who now stood at my side with his hand still 
grasping my arm — his interesting and smiling countenance, 
and his eyes bent upon me with all the philanthropy of an 
Englishman of worth, instantly disarmed me. 

" Oh, my dear Billington !" I exclaimed, pressing his hand 
in both my own ; " no other man but yourself should, with 
impunity, have broken in upon my sweet reverie. . . .have made 
me dread that a policeman had mistaken Guido Sorelli for a 
London rogue." 

Mr. Thomas Billington, one of my few intimate friends, was 
the brother-in-law of the celebrated Mrs. Billington, who has 



326 MY CONFESSIONS. 

left a name in Europe, as a songstress, never to be forgotten. 
For many years Billington had professed for me a friendship 
which he never withdrew. He was an English gentleman 
in heart and feeling, independent in the world's circumstances, 
and bearing ever the impress of all that is noble in mind. 
Within the period of our long acquaintance how many, 
many happy hours can I recal having passed with him in the 
sweet solitude of a little apartment he used to designate " my 
Study." Euterpe was his favorite muse. . . .a preference which 
gratitude had somewhat imperiously exacted : since, happening 
to be in France during the period of the assassination of the 
good King Louis XVI, without her kindly interference and as- 
sistance the luckless Thomas had possibly starved. 

Billington was generally profuse in his applause of the 
French— his only defect in my estimation. 

" Well, my dear Sorelli, and now let us proceed to the 
point/' he said still holding my arm and fixing his regards se- 
riously upon me, " have you seen the ' Literary Gazette ?' " 

" I have," replied I, " and most proud do 1 feel of its 
contents which regard myself ! " 

" Your feeling is that of a tfue Florentine/' replied Billing- 
ton, " but remember, Guido Sorelli, beneath our cloudy sky, 
activity is a necessary aliment. The sweet 'far niente* of 
Italy agrees not with our clime ; indolence is to us certain 
destruction" 

" Well, let me but breathe a while, and I will then apply 
to some other work. 

" Then ! Then /'' shouted Billington, although we stood 
in the public street, " Then indeed i" he repeated with a 
sardonic laugh, which I fancied he had learnt from me — 
" Whoever associates with the lame icili soon halt in reality. 
This is the moment, Sorelli 1" he added, suddenly assuming 
the serious air of a censor : " now or never ' — Follow me. " 

I followed : we reached St. Paul's Coffee-House, on the 
" Piazza St. Paul." 

" Gur business must be transacted here, Sir !" said Billing- 



MY CONFESSIONS. 327 

ton seriously as pointing to the entrance of the hotel, he led the 
way into it himself. 

" Where vou please, " I merely replied submissively. It 
was about two o'clock in the afternoon. As we entered the 
coffee-room, Billington called for two glasses of Sherry and 
some biscuits. Then turning to me with a sweet smile, he 
said: "As in Italy it is the custom to wind up Punch's 
wedding by the cudgel, and in Switzerland to preface each 
affair of moment by observing the disposition of the atmo- 
sphere, whether it bespeaks storms or serenity, so in England, 
we, who are perhaps somewhat less exalted in our flights than 
the Swiss, usher in all coming events by first fortifying our- 
selves with something pleasing to the palate. 

As he spoke, the waiter entered with two glasses of sherry 
and tw T o crisped biscuits. 

M Your health, Guido Sorelli !" 

" And your's, Thomas Billington !" 

" Well, my dear Sorelli/' commenced Billington, " this, 
then, is the moment — I repeat— it is now or never f" 

Here he took from his pocket a little worn volume : " This," 
he continued, " is the work to which Sorelli should now in- 
stantly apply himself, if he desire to conciliate the love, the 
esteem and the respect of the many bright spirits that adorn 
this renowned isle !" 

Unconscious of the author, I took the little volume from the 
extended hand of my friend ; and as I did so, an inexplicable 
feeling of religious awe came over me : it was as though I had 
received a hallowed thing. I opened it — it was milton's 

PARADISE LOST ! 

" That the poem to be translated by the Florentine," re- 
joined Billington, suddenly. 

" By me i" I exclaimed, astonished and half terrified at the 
proposition. 

" By you," repeated Billington authoritatively. 

" But, do you consider, my good friend," I expostulated, 
half pleased, half angry, and forcing the book again into his 



328 MY CONFESSIONS. 

hand, — " do you reflect how wild you are in thus pro- 
posing to me a work that would occupy me at least ten vears 
in completing — a work which would consequently deprive me 
of the time to apply myself to many interesting and indispens- 
able studies, to which it is imperative that I should attend 
in order to uphold my reputation as a literary Professor ? Be- 
sides, are you not aware that there are already five translations 
of t! Paradise Lost " in Italian ?" 

"Five!" echoed, nay shouted my friend; " are there not 
more than five hundred translations of Horace ? And yet 
Sorelli disdains to be pronounced the sixth translator of 
Milton !" he resumed, in a more placable, but very serious 
tone. " That the Florentine should shrink from the con- 
templation of a work that may well be deemed gigantic, does 
not surprise me, conscious as I am of the characteristic humility 
of his native town .... a humility which ever accompanies 
his fellow- citizens in their ascent to the highest pinnacle 
of genius. But that the Florentine Sorelli should have uttered 
so great a blasphemy as to say, that in consecrating ten 
years of his life to the study of Milton, he should interrupt 
his progress in literature, is what I may forgive in the course 
of years ; but years can hardly soften the remembrance of it. 
Was it sacrifice of time when Alighieri, your fellow-country- 
man, consecrated the flower of his existence to the study 
of Virgil ? To whom did Dante owe the inspirations of 
his * Livina Commedia,' if not to Virgil and Virgil alone ? 
Overcome by a paroxysm of humility, in which for one moment 
was quenched his unceasing. .. .his criminal spirit of arro- 
gance, was he not compelled to exclaim 



" Thou art ray master : from thy spirit breath'd 
That wondrous pow'r which in me wak'd the style 
That o^er my brow hath fairest laurels wreathed V 

" And yet Sorelli dares call it loss of time to devote ten of 



MY CONFESSIONS, 329 

his brightest years to the study of a poem which as far sur- 
passes the preceding as the heavens, where dwells the muse of 
Milton's inspiration, are exalted above the fabled Parnassus of 
old !" 

The noble indignation aroused by my pusillanimity and bad 
taste here ceased. He smiled, and, taking my hand kindly, he 
continued : 

" Well, Sorelli ! your insult has been too great not to have 
awakened, within the breast of the insulted, the desire of 
vengeance ; and I assure you mine is a soul somewhat 
warmer than that of the generality of the English, though, 
like my countrymen, I know how to suppress my resentment, 
until a fitting moment for its expression arrive. The day of 
my vengeance shall be the tenth anniversary of this ; when, 
having accomplished the translation of Paradise Lost into 
elegant Florentine verse, you shall also have published an 
original work and obtained the applause of our critics. That 
day I will appear before you, and if I do not upbraid you w T ith 
your former ingratitude, I w T ill at least demand of you in terms 
sufficiently galling, "Does Signor Guido Sorelli now complain 
of having lost his time in translating Milton into Tuscan verse ?" 

At these words, I retook the volume respectfully from 
Billington, who still offered it me with his eyes fixed intently 
upon me. 

" This day's sun shall not go down upon me 'ere I have im- 
plored the protection of Heaven, and commenced a work which 
promises to guide Guido Sorelli into the temple of glory," I 
said. 

A heart-felt smile beamed in the eye, and played upon the 
lip of my friend ; and in silence we parted. 



330 MY CONFESSIONS* 



CHAPTER XXIII. 



From the day of ray opening the poem of " Paradise Lost" 
to that on which I concluded its translation, elapsed an interval 
of six years. It had scarcely run through the first edition, 
when, without having time to read over or polish this my 
first essay, I was compelled to publish the second. The next 
four years I applied myself to the correction of my work, and, 
by re-perusing and comparing it with other translations 
of the same author which had previously appeared, I was 
enabled both to detect my own mis- constructions and those of 
my predecessors. Having concluded this strict and impartial 
review, I began my task anew, and without once again reverting 
to my first version, re-translated " Paradise Lost" into Italian 
blank verse. 

Thus, after another interval of four years, I beheld myself at 
the termination of a work, which, in the outset, had seemed 
to me gigantic. This my second and third effort was dedi- 
cated, by permission, to Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen 
Adelaide of England. 

It was the 20th of June 1832, that I wrote the last verse of 
my translation of Milton. 

There is an awful — often painful — feeling, creeping into the 
heart of man whenever he is compelled to say — " this is the 
last" But it is happily and kindly provided, that in the life of 
every man there should be certain pauses, which force conside- 
ration upon the careless, and seriousness upon the light-hearted ; 
points of time where one course of action ends, and another 
begins — where we are forced to say of something — " this is 
the last /" 

By outliving the translation of Milton, I then considered 






MY CONFESSIONS. 33 1 

that I had passed weeks, months and years, which were now 
no longer in my power ; that an end must in time be put to 
every thing great, as to every thing little ; that to life must 
come its last hour, when probation ceases, and repentance 
will be vain ; the day in which every work of the hand, and 
imagination of the heart shall be brought to judgment, and an 
everlasting futurity shall be determined by the past ! 

I here knelt down within the exile's solitary cell, and with a 
heart which God had filled with gratitude, [ fervently prayed, 
not with words, but with a flood of tears, which I offered to my 
merciful Creator a sacrifice of thanksgiving -.—after which, I 
wrote the following " Thoughts/' in order to record this 
memorable day. 



" They hand in hand with wandering steps and slow." 
Twas thus 1 sang the story of our woe, 

Thro' lines unnumbered led ; 
Whilst with its closing verse, I mark'd fulfuTd 
The tenth long summer heav'n lor me had will'd 

To eat the stranger's bread. 
I sang ! Can he be deem'd t'awake the song, 
Who simply bears another's thought along, 

Clothed in his foreign dress ? 
But such may be. Who thus the bard arrays, 
Must dwell within the halo of his rays, 

Scarce feel his spirit less. 
If I have proved the influence of that hour, 
Not mine the praise, but thine who wak'd the pow'r, 

Love's fountain ! Heaven's High King ! 
Thou who didst grant my boon ere yet 'twas told, 
And pitying mark'd how angry billows roIFd 

To crush my bark's proud wing. 
Yet like the ark upon the sea of death, 
Mine rode secure in Thee, e'en tho' no breath 

Of wisdom fill'd its sail. 
For ten long years I on that ocean tost, 
Whose ev'ry wave a tomb my bark had cost, 

But for thy friendly hail* 



532 Mf CONFESSIONS. 

EncompassM by Thy peace — that holy name — ■ 
To climb the friendless stair of strangers came 

A thing less chill to be. 
And tho' still distant from my beauteous land, 
The bread now ofFer'd by a foreign hand 

Less bitter seem'd to me ! 
Whilst worldly hope in broken fragments lay 
My soul awoke to feel that surer way 

When God alone doth guide. 
It whisper'd thus : Man knows no greater ill 
Than that which casts his evr'y hope and will 

Upon this world's dark tide. 
To trust in mortal strength, when God is near . . , 
That God a Saviour too and Parent dear, 

Is spring of ev'ry woe ! 
Or not alone His guidance seek, who dwells 
The mighty source. . . .who creates or quells, 

Binds, looses all below. 
To barter for the smile whose brightest joy 
Oft proves the heart's gay holiday's alloy, 

A Saviour's promis'd love, 
What mad exchange ! to cast on mortal die 
All that the fancy paints, or mental eye 

Tells of the joys above, 
Or purchase man's applause with that above, 
And woo with anxious care, with earthly love, 

Its ephem'ral breath of fame .... 
To check the soul in each its heavenward flight, 
To grovel in the pale .... the fancied light 

Of pleasure's worldly name ! 



Scarce had my vain. . . .my worldly visions fled, 
Whilst yet I markM their ruin ; mercy shed 

Its healing o'er my soul : 
And tho* still distant from my native land, 
My heart created with his magic wand 

My country, parent, whole! 



MY CONFESSIONS. 333 



Its kindly influence whispered to iny mind 
I much had lost yet more remahfd behind 

To soothe me in my woe; 
For tho' the desert's horrors I might prove, 
One scintillation of eternal love 

Wakes Paradise below. 
Tho** far remov'd from all my heart could love, 
Tho' rich or poor, how lonely I might move, 

That smile would make my heav'n, 
And with its light alone dispel the gloom 
Which long had gather'd round me in the doom 

A chilling world had giv'n. 
One smile alone from that blest fount can give 
Peace to the soul. . . .awake a dawn, to live 

Eternity on earth. 
Man feels his sorrow vanish from his breast, 
His soul beatified, while ever blest 

Virtue assumes her birth. 



That ne'er my soul had sought her heav'n to gain, 
Nor burst the galling yoke of Satan's reign, 

I oft with grief confess d, 
Whilst now the contrast pierc'd my mental sight 
Of this sad tearful world, to that whose light 

Spoke joy's eternal rest. 
I sorrow'd for the time I had mis-spent, 
And woke a life's new era in content, 

By study borne along : 
And who alone had dwelt a guilty thing, 
Now boldly soar'd aloft on Milton's wing 

And rais'd again his song. 
Ten long, long years thus glided calmly by, 
Ten years the exile felt with many a sigh 

An orphan and alone ; 
And oft the marvel cross'd my anxious mind, 
If e'er amid the strangers I should find 

One friend to call my own. 



334 MY CONFESSIONS. 

But tho' I dwelt far from my aged sire, 
My soul's fond sister, and Italians fire, 

Her flow'rs and friendly sky, 
Whene'er necessity compelled the boon 
To wake my wish, 'twas e'en granted soon, 

Neer pass ' d unheeded by. 
Peace sat within my breast — that cold long calm, 
Yet all we hope of joy — the heart's still balm 

Which nought but guilt can check ; 
For who in soli.ude can haply find, 
Whate'er his fate, a meek contented mind, 

Has conquer'd life's stern wreck. 



Vainly the world doth rage ! each fearful gust 
May seem to bow the virtuous to the dust, 

But ne'er his soul can quell. 
The grave may e'en await him ! 'mid the gloom 
He views the portal to a brighter doom 

And hears th' angelic knell. 
Life's anxious path encompass'd round with care, 
Its envious thorns — his portion ev'ry where — 

Are dearer to his soul 
Than e'er the rose to him whose incense feeds 
His flatter'd sense, beguiling while it leads 

To stern perdition's goal. 
So much doth evil mix with human good, 
That oft the hapless tide of sorrow's flood 

Doth stain the virtuous cheek, 
But whilst within his heart peace holds her reign, 
Ingratitude or treachery in vain 

With him their home may seek. 
The man may grieve — but like the sun — his soul 
Enshrin'd in faith, resists proud man's control, 

And blooms unsullied still. 
Faith lends its triumph to his suffering hour, 
The humble reed contemns the tempests pow'r, 

Yet bows him to its will. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 335 

Oh God ! withdraw the veil from off my sight, 
That 'mid a world where darkness stands for light, 

I may the truth discern ! 
That much too prone the heart is e'er to ill, 
And oft the sport of each unbridled will, 

Not now have I to learn ! 
Man knows no greater foe than his own heart, 
Whose poison oft assails th' immortal part.. • 

The mind — proud reason's throne ; 
For if remembered guilt repentance wake, 
The heart is ever there to still each break 

Of weak remorse's tone. 
By nature prone to mock at ev'ry good, 
Its incense, ill — it hates all other food, 

And thus doth man deprave : 
It wakes its poison'd stream in ev'ry vein, 
And, Lord ! would prove but for thy healing reign, 

Poor virtue's living grave. 
Celestial Spirit! o'er my heart descend ! 
Thy purifying stream of healing lend 

To mrtke it worth thy love I 
Oh God ! thy heavenly reign within awake 
That I may greet the ills which o'er me break 

As tokens from above. 
Less harsh will then appear my bitter doom 
To seek on foreign shores a living tomh. . . . 

Less stern thy will may seem. 
My star long risen 'mid a troubi'd sky, 
Will, 'mid the gloom, a heav'n of peace descry 

Illumin'd by thy beam ! 
My years of solitude . . . .the bitter tear 
To purchase heav'n, were much too light to bear.. .. 

A home amidst the blest ! 
Yet, Lord ! to bear life's burthen all alone, 
To dwell an orphan, from my country thrown, 

Appears a stein behest. 
'Tis hard when memory recalls the flight 
Of years whose leaden wings reflect no light 

And leave no joy behind, 
To feel how poor an off ring I have brought 
To win thy love, oh God ! which then had bought 
A future less unkind. 



336 MY CONFESSIONS. 

'Tis hard to feel alone the thorn's sharp sting 
Without one kindred rose it oft might bring 

To heal the wound it gave. 
Yet, gracious Father, if a hsav'n there be 
E'en for the humblest, ope its gates to me — 

My soul support and eave. 
Perchance it is Thy will — Thy high behest, 
Life's transient journey should be so unblest ! 

Yet Thou canst comfort give : 
Let fortune ever frown, and tempest rage, 
Let all prove false when men to men engage, 

Truth with Thee only live ! 
Still, Father ! thou canst e'er support the soul, 
Encompass ills with inward calm's controul, 

Till they but shadows seem. 
In sorrow's hour man's heart awakes to pray'r, 
Which thou, in mercy, hast implanted there 

With bright celestial beam. 
Each happy thought thou dost alone inspire, 
Man's heart canst purify by thy blest fire 

From all of earthly dross. 
Oh, Father ! let me not unmindful prove 
Of all Thy gifts — then save me by thy love 

Whilst still life's path I cross. 
From fell ingratitude, oh ! save me still, 
That hydra, parent of all other ill, 

Which first perdition woke. 
Not disobedience 'twas Thee crucified, 
But mans ingratitude whose fatal tide 

O'er all his race hath broke ! 



Thy heav'nly aid oh do not now withold, 
Vouchsafe thy spirit, Father ! to uphold 

My soul from this abyss : 
But on Thy wings once more let it ascend 
To that blest mount whence thou dost comfort lend, 

And inspiration's bliss ! 



MY CONFESSIONS. S3 7 

From thence, oh Lord, my spirit shall review 
This vale of sin and death, and learn anew 

Its value how to prize : 
From thence behold how joyless is the smile 
He but assumes his conscience to beguile, 

Who doth Thy love despise. 
I then shall learn earth only is a grave 
Whose besom doth each day fresh victims crave 

And beckons all to come. 
I too shall feel how vain must then appear 
This world's vain struggles, when the sound we hear, 

Elect ! behold thy home ! 
I then shall see that thro' life's darken'd glass 
Light's seeming beam is false, whilst ne'er did pass 

An eye behind its veil : 
Yet such is worldly fortune! by its glare 
Luring to evil — then a phantom there 

It leaves man to his wail. 
Behold ! what shall I not behold, when she, 
Sweet virtue ! then my consort guide shall be 

Amid a path divine ? 
My soul will wake truth's splendor then to learn 
In virtue's loveliness, will thenceforth turn 

A pilgrim to her shrine. 
With her beside me, grief will lose its sting, 
The world its arrow — whilst proud hope will bring 

Its solace to my mind ! 
Yes virtue, thou ! my sweetest, only bride ! 
Thy angel-hand to he&v'n my steps shall guide, 

Eternal rest to find. 
Descend, fair goddess, and withdraw the veil 
That hides thee from me, 'ere my pow'rs shall fail 

Death's icy hand to dare ! 
Descend, thou messenger of Him whose grace 
Was ne'er withheld to a repentant race, 

Nor to the tearful pray'r ! 
Come, gentle virtue ! and this bitter life 
Which seems an ocean of continued strife, 

Will wear the brightest hue. 
Within the soul, the spring of ev'ry deed, 
Without, 'twill wake a Paradise whose meed 

Of joy man never knew. 

Q 



538 MY CONFESSIONS* 

That I have sought companionship with -tears, 
Rejecting oft the smile which gladness wears, 

And rais'd the holy song ; 
That I have turn'd with fervor to my God, 
This, well I know, hath wak'd the venom'd rod 

Of satire's rebel throng ! 
But when did senseless laughter erer bring 
One off' ring that were deem'd a holy thing 

Meet sacrifice to God, 
Whilst human grief doth dwell alone on earth, 
And from its growth doth wake to immortal birth 

The fruit of heav'n's own sod ? 
Oh ye ! encompassed by reason's light 
Must mark the idiot dream, whose mental night 

Ne'er knows itself unbless'd. 
That rectitude which ev'ry joy awakes, 
For ever flown — her flight sweet virtue takes ; 

And all in vice are dress'd. 
Oh day accurs'd ! which bears refinements stamp, 
When men in crowds approach to feed the lamp 

At gold's polluted shrine ! 
To that base idol all is sacrificed, 
Friendship forgot, while that alone is priz'd 

Which heaps the glitt'ri/ig mine. 
The patriot's love ! the joys of liberty ! 
Echo from ev'ry lip — e'en while the cry 

Resolves itself in sound. 
Their muse is Mammon — he, that recreant one 
Who warr'd for gold amid a heav'n's bright sun— 

To him their pray'rs resound ! 
Their heart's denying what the lips reveal, 
Seeming to give — their avriee to conceal^ 

Men feign themselves life's flow'r ! 
Whilst but a weed, with words and thoughts at war, 
One love unites them where all others jar, 

Fame's— gold's — bewitching pow'r ! 



MY CONFESSIONS. $39 

Oh ! love divine that doth the soul inspire 
Its God to imitate — with holy fire 

Dii\ ct the path to light ! 
Shrouded in darkness is each other way 
Which lures the soul, the heart on earth to stay, 

And checks their heavenward flight. 
There like the gold which doth by lire refine, 
The pilgrim soul will e'en mid tempest shine 

Nor heed the world's dark sky. 
Man's foe who in his breast each passion wakes, 
Whose fatal guilt too sure his victim makes 

There veils his blasting eye. 
Then life were joy, for soon the soul must know, 
With God our anchor, ev'ry shaft of woe 

Will glance unheeded by. 
What doth he lose who bids the world farewell ? 
A vapor pass'd in air — a dream whose spell 

Must e'en in waking die. 
Who lingers still upon this world's vast stage, 
What doth his ev'ry word — sis thoughts engage, 

But slavery s sad cry ? 
Who doth not breathe some murmur of complaint ? 
What thoughtless bosom still forgot to paint 

Some wish to satisFy ? 



Then must we still live on, the world's base slave, 
Where oft the heart would find a living grave 

Without celestial hope ? 
That single fountain from a beav'nly spring, 
Doth to the myriad ills sweet comfort bring, 

With which mankind must cope. 
Oh no ! Thou, God of peace, with Thy blest love 
Fill man's proud heart, that check'd by pow'r above. 

War's dark career may cease. 
Vouchsafe that we may see Thy reign on earth, 
That man in friendship may fulfil the birth 

A heav'n design'd in peace. 

Q2 



SAO MY CONFESSIONS, 

Then heavVs blest rays shall gild the pontiffs brow? 
Where mitred baubles but entwine it now, , 

And mark the world's base stamp. 
Meek follower of th'apostolic school, 
Rome's sovereign shall forget his throne and rule 

To feed Christ's holy lamp. 
No more the wolf as often he doth prove, 
He shall fulfil his sacred trust in love, 

A shepherd to his sheep. 
Then blest by him, his flock shall truly feel 
That two-fold blessing, that in woe or weal 

Doth them in safety keep. 
Thro' him blest virtue shall awake the seed 
Of future harvests on which all may feed, 

A growth spontaneous best. 
The Vatican's vain pomp he shall despise, 
While Jesus* follow'r o'er each pontiff rise 

The sov'reign and the best. 
One hymn from ev'ry church shall then resound, 
Proclaiming peace with man. . ..that Saviour found 

It e'er had lost till now. 
His temple cleansed from base pollution's stain 
Christ ne'er disdains to enter once again 

And hark the christian's vow. 
No longer reviling in the martyr's blood, 
Nor proudly boasting in dominion's flood 

He'll seek another fame .... 
Assume the wreath a tyrant ne'er can love, 
His country's parent, He, th' August will prove, 

And not alone in name. 
Men then will flock around their pontiff king, 
Who from a Saviour's model e'er will bring, 

Sweet counsel for their guide. 
Now red with blood — no more shall camps resound 
With cannon's roar — no foreign banners found 

To mark proud conquest's tide. 
No more the arguish'd cry of death shall rise, 
No more the wail of helpless widow's sighs 

Again afflict the air. 
Blest vows of peace shall wreathe from ev'ry shrine, 
Contending banners then shall entertwine, 
And hang in friendship there. 



MY CONFESSIONS* 34 1 

The titled noble, he who boldly stands 

In life's mix'd portrait first throughout all lands 

Shall honor reap on earth. . . . 
Shall dwell the lordly mountain o'er a vale, 
That scarce were humbler deem'd, but that the dale 

Owes to the mount its birth. 
Thus, like the twig which owns a double charm 
Beneath the oak's proud shadows and doth warm 

To life within its sight, 
The humblest honored by the great shall live. 
E'en as the highest angels* honor give 

To those in heav'n less bright. 
Pale avarice, an unfed worm, shall leave 
Its home within each heart — no more shall grieve 

The poor for daily bread ; 
For then, respect and charity twin grown, 
The wealthy in his stately halls shall own 

All selfish passions fled. 
To soothe the wretched into hope and joy, 
That silent instrument, heaven's blest envoy, 

The rich earth's saint shall prove : 
And when heaven's summons shall recall him home, 
His kindly spirit 'mid the blest shall roam 

And reap celestial love. 
They now who stand amid the crowd supreme, 
Soaring on talent's wing, whose dazzling beam 

Wakes from empyreal fire : 
No more shall they mislead the vacant throng, 
But of the star crown'd muse to aid their song 

Invoke her sacred lyre. 
No longer boasting in proud talent's gift, 
To Him, its great awakener, they shall lift 

Their souls in gratitude. 
No more their song shall ring with war or love, 
Or ruin'd Troy — their dream alone shall prove 

One thought — beatitude ! 
Their theme no longer beauty's transient breath, 
The blushing rose which buds to sink in death, 

But heaven's eternal bloom. 
The toiling pedant and the author's pain 
Shall of the rich esteem and honor gain, 

And reap a happier doom. 



342 MY CONFESSIONS, 

Christ's reign shall then awake within each breast* 
Himself ?dor'd on earth as heav n — the test — 

A second advent dawn. 
Man's song shall mingle with the holy quire, 
Whilst He, their great Creator, veils his ire 

And joys that man was born ! 



Blest day of peace ! my soul would cling to thee, 
Were one brief hour he T s — but far may be 

Her bark from thy bright shore 1 
How many a storm, how many a tear must trace 
Her worldly passage, e'er her resting-place 

May hail her wand'rings o'er ! 
How many 'mid the senseless and the wise 
Adopt that standard — whose infernal guise 

Ensures perdition's doom ! 
How many minds in Satan's bondage lie, 
The heart's proud master, whilst they helplessly 

Sink in eternal gloom ! 
How oft shall man by vice his peace destroy 
And stain a woild, which but for that alloy, 

Were beautiful and bright ! 
How oft shall passion on the human face 
Bespeak a hell when only we should trace 

The soul's celestial light ! 
Base slaves to gold ! how oft shall men despise 
Heaven's self, to gain that glifring winged prize, 

A world's delusive joy ! 
What darkening shadows still — what aching care— 
What fond illusions vanishing in air, 

Must e'er that world alioy ! 



MY CONFESSIONS* 345 

Oh, Father ! God of peace ! what earth-born son 
In fearful warfare with thy falPn one, 

Can e'er in safety lie ? 
Heaven's choir in holy league were insecure ; 
They who could read their brother's soul impure, 

Yet totter'd in their sky. 
How then can man — frail man ! resist a foe 
Who ceaselessly doth aim his fatal blow, 

Himself nowhere revenl'd ? 
Oh Father of each heart ! without whose breath 
Man lost in crime would own a living death, 

Hold not thy aid conceaPd ! 



Oh, Lord ! withdraw me from illusion's spell 5 
In which thou seest me oft condemn'd to dwell, 

Restore in me Thy lore. 
Teach me to see reality's impress 
Unshadow'd by the visionary dress, 

Man^s sorrows oft to prove ! 
Let hatred, rancour, vengeance, strangers be 
Within the heart, regenerate by thee ! 

May love the purest dwell ! 
Erect within an altar so divine, 
That peace and pardon on its sacred shrine, 

Each poison'd shaft may quell i 
Enrich me, Lord, with treasures from above, 
Sweeter than earthly gems, which often prove 

In silent ruin drest ! 
Thy peace reveal, whose brightly colored hue, 
The world hath vainly sought, but never knew v 

A peace celestial — blest! 
Oh, with Thy love defend me as a shield, 
Whose glowing barrier I may ever wield, 

Thy glory o'er me shed ! 
Thy blest abode awake within my heart, 
Till with the world, heav'n summons me to part f 

And dwell among the dead ! 



344 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Blest day ! should stern remorse her flight e'er take* 
And in my heart the hope of pardon wake, 

To teach me God were nigh. . , . 
Should o'er my heart the voice of those I lore, 
Stealing in sweet Italia's accents, prove 

My fate were there to die ! 
But should the exile's bones be doom'd to fill 
The stranger's grave ! in death as life thy will 

That I obscure should dwell : 
Then mercy send me in life's trying close, 
That with it I may part in sweet repose 

And smiling bid farewell ! 
Oh ! at Thy hour. Thy promise, Lord, fulfil : 
Who knocks unwearied at Thy portal still, 

Shall sure admittance find! 
That he who seeks the measure of Thy grace, 
Shall find the promis'd gift, which to our race 

A Saviour deign'd to bind ! 



Should e'en the future but a fable be, 
For ev'ry good its best reward to me 

Were in life's peaceful close ! 
But who would not blest virtue's path pursue, 
To gain a heav'n whose joy for ever new, 

No termination knows ! 



If, during the first six years of close application to my trans- 
lation, I had daily enjoyed seven hours of happiness indescrib- 
able. .. .undreamed of by those who, grovelling through 
existence, disdain to occupy themselves in those pursuits,, 
which — 

" From earth's bondage lift the soul to Heaven!" 



MY CONFESSIONS. 345 

these last four years of my occupation bore the impress of a 
happiness almost beatified. 

From the numberless difficulties with which I had to contend 
in my first translation, it was natural that I should find much 
of the splendour, which illumines this fine poem, considerably 
overshadowed — if not some of its beauties actually eclipsed. 

How, from the imperfection of my education, I should 
have succeeded, to my own astonishment, in translating 
Milton, so as to obtain the applause of the learned, is a 
problem not to be explained by attributing the merit to 
mvself ; those who are about to undertake any arduous enter- 
prize may learn from my example how to commence, if they 
would prosper in their labours, bearing in mind that — 

" Who well begins hath conquered half his task !" 

I never commenced my daily task without having first im- 
plored the assistance of Heaven, persuaded that, of all our 
christian duties, not one is so neglected as that of prayer ; 
which is the most essential of all, and the only medium by 
which we may obtain a blessing from above. Prayer is the 
test of our love to our Maker. Who prays the most fer- 
vently, loves the most devoutly .... with a love — the soul's 
best joy — that comes not by any natural desire of our own, 
nor by the innate power of our hearts, neither by the unasked 
inspiration of the Holy Spirit ; but it is a love so entire in 
itself, that God alone, in the jealousy of His power, is its 
sole dispenser, bestowing it but in proportion to our own 
demands. The coldness of our prayers . ... our obstinate 
refusal to knock repeatedly at the door of Him, who has pro- 
mised to open unto us, is the source of all our want of faith. 
It is not the promises of Jesus that fail, but our conduct which 
heeds not their accomplishment. 

Alas ! how do they merit compassion who know not the 



346 MY CONFESSIONS. 

happiness of trust in their Maker.... who have never laid 
bare to Him their hearts. . .> . never communicated with Him 
through the medium of prayer, which is 

(€ Humility's blest child ! — the talisman 

Which robs the arrow of its venom'd shaft, 
And sends it pointless to its mortal home ! 
Prayer is the kindly balsam. . . .gentlest dew ; 
'Tis music softly stealing — 'tis the tear 
Heaven drops in mercy on the parched earth ; 
The sun which wipes it from its grateful breast! 
Prayer is the casket in whose mighty nest 
Are noblest ardor, counsel — tolerance — 
The secret springs of resignation — all enclosed." 



CHAPTER XXIV. 



In this manner did my bark navigate its ordinarily still ocean 
of existence ; and though occasionally approaching a rock, a 
collision with which must inevitably have crushed my frail 
vessel, Providence ever made me a way to escape. 

But, as passing over ten years of my life silently with rela- 
tion to myself, would be forfeiting my pledge to Silvio 
Pellico, to whom I have addressed st My Confessions/' I will 
pause awhile to say that whilst my external seeming was that 
of the sad calm of twilight, there dwelt within my heart a 
continued struggle between gloom and sunshine, a perpetual 
alternation of joy and sorrow — a cruel void, still not yet 
assuming the form of any wish, or ever possessing the con- 
sciousness of what it desired to fill that void. 

It at length became my waking dream that the source of all 



MY CONFESSIONS. 347 

my unhappiness was — that I was alone ; and it was the pro- 
traction of that dream that caused me twice to fancy / loved. 

Twice have I, therefore, stood on the point of becoming a 
Benedict. But, either I am not destined for that state, or 
my disposition is somewhat difficult to decipher. Be that 
as it may, I was dismissed hy my first enslaver, after a dream 
of five years, with the sentence of inexorable refusal, having 
been convicted (though with how much justice I pretend not to 
determine) of Italian jealousy ! In the second instance, the door 
was closed against me by a Scotch gentleman, who, for twelve 
years, had professed for me the most sacred friendship ; because 
■ — as he wrote me — I was older than his daughter ; a Roman 
Catholic ; poor ; of an imaginative temperament ; a foreigner ; 
and, — well might he have added — a foet. 

These two disappointments, however, created no other sen- 
timents in the heart of your friend, Peliico, than those which 
we experience when, having dreamed of Elysium, we awake 
to the reality of a contemptible, a blind and treacherous world. 

But 

" Whatever is, is right." 

Providence orders all events for our good, and all its dispen- 
sations are well regulated, though our short-sightedness is 
unable to mark the harmony of their varying hues of benefit! 



CHAPTER XXV. 



Although by a long but painful experience I had learned to 
think upon the injustice of my fellow- creatures with resigna- 
tion ; and not to suffer any impression from without to reach 
below the surface of my feelings; yet, I had no peace of 
mind ! Within the most secret and sensitive part of my heart, 
there was an inward longing for that water offered to the 



343 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Samaritan Woman, one taste of which would quench the 
soul's thirst, and render it blessed in eternity. I hungered for 
the bread of life, the participation of which nourishes us for 
that Paradise where we shall hunger no more. I panted for 
•the light which seemed to gleam upon me from afar, whilst I 
had neither the power nor the courage to emerge from that 
darkness by which I was surrounded. My hope was Heaven- 
bound, whilst a tyrannical impossibility to obtain my wish 
chained me to earth, rendering that very hope not a blessing 
but a torment to me. An angel from afar, compassionate and 
gentle, with the tear of mercy in his eye-lid, seemed present- 
ing to me love's holy chalice, and with his " still small voice" 
inviting me to quaff it to the dregs ; whilst another, with the 
song of the syren, and with a countenance radiant as the morn- 
ing sun, 

"To me held 

Even to mj- mouth, of that same fruit held part 
Which he had plucked." 



CHAPTER XXVI. 



With a mind torn by such uncertainty, I abandoned the 
holy communion. The abstinence from this communion* 
rendered my soul drooping and hopeless, and life was to me 
deprived of its every joy. 

I was not happy, and I accused my Creator as the source of 
my discontent. 

My prayers had now become only the wailings of presump- 
tion. " To what end," I exclaimed, " do I seek truth at 
the cost of so much labour, when my existence perhaps will 
pass away amid these ceaseless troubles, ever powerless to 
emancipate myself from this state of profound obscurity into 



MY CONFESSIONS. 349 

which Thou, my God ! hast plunged me but to abandon me 
there ?" 

I felt that whilst unsustained by the bread of Heaven, peace 
could never enter. my heart. Still I could not resolve to accept 
that nourishment at the altar of idolatry, nor seek it at another, 
where they told me I should not find my Saviour in the bread 
they offered. 

For months I wandered from church to church, from sect to 
sect, having in the course of that period, with the exception 
of the ■ Quakers/ visited each individual sect. The only 
reason that discouraged me from attending a Quaker's 
meeting was the antipathy they bore to music. Their fine 
open countenances, the propriety, the simplicity of their attire, 
their modest reserve, their virtue, the soundness of their 
understanding, have always made them the peculiar objects of 
my esteem. I believe that notwithstanding their blind in- 
terpretation of the Scriptures, the invisible hand of God 
is ever with them, encouraging and supporting them through 
this world of darkness, to guide them at length to the true 
light. 

" But, what advantage did you reap, Guido, from thus visit- 
ing both churches and chapels prohibited by the Pope ?"— I 
shall be asked. 

" The seeds of mv conversion to a more christian church," I 
reply. True it is I resembled the butterfly fluttering from flower 
to flower, more than the bee resting upon the one which might 
yield me the sweetest honey. But, though a butterfly, I felt 
that I no longer fluttered amongst tbe thorns. All were 
flowers in my range now; and if my heart was not yet the 
actual tabernacle of that peace, which man can neither give nor 
take away — if Heaven's harmony had not yet entered my soul, 
discord had ceased, whilst the sweet repose of a placid silence 
had occupied its place. 

Thus, step by step, did God lead me on towards His own 
time. . . .the time He Himself had appointed. 



350 MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 



In the year 1825, a young Englishwoman, anxious to add 
an acquaintance with the Italian language to her other ac- 
quirements, applied to Messrs Dulau, booksellers, to recom- 
mend her to a professor qualified to do her justice. 

Messrs. Dulau selected three from the various names re- 
gistered in their books, and writing down the address of 
each, gave them to the fair enquirer. 

The young lady, who was between sixteen and seventeen 
years of age, left the shop ; and, pursuing her way home- 
wards, she amused her girlish fancy by endeavouring to pro- 
nounce each name with the best accent she could, and then 
determined which of these three foreign nomenclatures ac- 
corded the most harmoniously with her English ear. 

Having reached her habitation, she submitted the same to 
her mother's judgment, begging her first to listen, and then to 
pronounce which she thought the most agreeable. 

" guido sorelli, to be sure," — replied the mother. 

" So I thought !" — replied the daughter. 

In consequence of this decision, it was agreed that a billet 
should be despatched to this happily-christened ' Guido Sorelli/ 
begging him to call upon the lady, for the purpose of instruct- 
ing her in the Italian language. 

I accordingly repaired thither : after which my terms were 
mentioned, and immediately agreed to. 

Emma— it is a name too English and too harmonious to be 
unuttered in " My Confessions" — was possessed of great beauty, 
and endowed with a ready genius. Patience in study ; a viva- 
city of spirit and unwearied assiduity, were all united in her. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 351 

Of a fine disposition, with a mind fanciful and poetic, she wa» 
yet mild, benignant and compassionate. 

Such was — and such is Emma, the kind friend of Guido. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 



-On one memorable Sunday in the year 1834, I was en- 
gaged to a dinner party with her family, in company with 
several other guests. 

During the evening, whilst seated by Emma, I requested 
her to go to the instrument and accompany me in an air. 

Hitherto this had been our Sunday evening's amusement : 
but as Lriow preferred my request, she turned towards me, and 
with a grace no language can describe, she said— 

" Guido, you by nature are religious ; and I am sure you 
will now understand me, without submitting me to the pain of 
using many words. Dear Sorelli, I have not the courage to go 
to the instrument to-night. Possiblv there mav be no harm in 
so doing : but when once the heart whispers us we are doing 
amiss, I think it would be culpable not to heed its dictates. 
Do you blame me, Serelli ?" 

" Blame you V I repeated, with an involuntary feeling of 
joy and surnrise; " Oh, no! quite the contrary. I applaud 
you most sincerely, and congratulate you upon the possession 
of so exalted a feeling. But permit me to demand — I con- 
tinued, " what has wrought so salutary a change in your 
heart... .you from whom, during the whole period of our 
acquaintance, I have never heard even the whisper of reli- 
gion ?" 

"It is now several Sundays that I have attended a chapel 
near here, named 6t Christ Chapel, " and there I have heard a 



352 MY CONFESSIONS. 

gentleman of the name of the Rev. Sanderson Robins preach. 
His doctrine, his manner, his eloquence and his exceeding 
humility have so awakened my heart to a happiness, more 
lasting than the fleeting pleasures this world can offer, that I 
have vowed to my God to hearken to the instructions of His 
servant, and to endeavour to obey them." 

" Oh how lovely a soul will seek an entrance into Heaven !" 
I exclaimed, involuntarily : " Never will the angels have 
welcomed so blest a sister into their paradise as thee I" 



CHAPTER XXIX. 



The following Sunday I was not quite the last to enter the 
chapel of that gifted man, who had effected the conversion 
of the beautiful Emma. 

I must here confess, amongst my other delinquencies, that I 
appeared arrayed in that sardonic smile which after a proxi- 
mity of fourteen years had assumed all the extra colouring of 
the impertinent English sneer. 

With a mind thus disposed, it will not be presumed that the 
spirit of devotion accompanied my prayers of that morning. — 
I could not pray, although— - who will credit me? — I desired it 
most ardently. 

The preacher had ascended his pulpit, and had concluded the 
usual prayer, when a voice seemed to whisper to me — " Pre- 
pare thyself, Guido, for a brilliant display of poetry/' 

The Preacher commenced. — That true eloquence of a 
celestial creation, which insensibly makes itself felt in the 
heart by the voice of its awakening torrent : that eloquence, 
whose golden bonds enthral whilst they delight ; and, like a 
mighty river, noiselessly propels its great waters : that 



MY CONFESSIONS. 353 

eloquence, which, with a microscopic power, reveals the 
minutest truths : that humility of spirit, which makes allowance 
for the heart's defects in this mortal tabernacle, and which 
is the foundation stone of every virtue ! that gratitude to God 
which acknowleges Him the gracious spring of every acquired 
prosperity, and which, like the sun-flower, never turns from 
the orb which has warmed it into being ! tnat christian zeal, 
which, thoughtless of itself, Lke the Phoenix, sacrifices its very 

being to give life to those it loves ! the charity of an 

apostle — the love of a brother, were all in the clergyman Robins, 
in the publisher of the gospel, who, endued with the Holy 
Spirit, now, from his sacred pulpit, raised his voice to reprove 
sin — to administer heaven's food, and to point to his flock, as 
to his brethren, the way to eternal life. 

The lip of the irreverent scoffer relaxed its impious ex- 
pression, to assume once more that designed by Heaven, who 
from infancy had impressed him with the desire of salvation. 
I know not if I that morning became a Protestant ; this I 
know, that I quitted " Christ Chapel" more edified by what I 
had heard than I had ever before experienced in any country, 
or in any Church whatever ; and it is my sacred duty to con- 
fess that, from that Sunday to the ensuing, I, for the first time, 
felt it an easy task to live virtuously, whilst a sweet and sin- 
cere peace took possession of my heart. 



CHAPTER XXX. 



If, on the preceding Sunday I had repaired to Christ Chapel 
for Emma's sake, the following Sunday I went there for my 
own; and I did not quit it on the third, before I had engaged 
one of the only two remaining seats to be disposed of. 



354 MY CONFESSIONS. 

There was one point I now religiously observed, which was 
to listen in humbleness of spirit, and I prayed fervently that 
that I heard might work to my good, invariably resolved to 
follow meekly the inclination I now sincerely fek^awaken within 
my heart to virtue. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 



" What was, then, the result of your hearing the Pro- 
testant preachers ?" This will be most likely the question put 
to me by the Roman Catholics. " Was it your withdrawing 
from the religion of your fore-fathers ? — Was it to turn your 
back to those altars which will ever echo before the throne of 
the Almighty the sincere, the heart-felt prayers which the 
youth in his days of comparative innocence had there offered ? 
Was it your becoming a stumbling-block to your fellow- citizens 
... .to your fellow-countrymen. . . .to your contemporaries ?" 

I tremble on entering upon so awful a subject ! I shall, in 
the judgment of the court of Rome, be called a heretic ! — But 
I, for one, am free to "confess, that after the way which is 
called heresy, so worship I the God of my fathers, believing 
all things which are written in the law and in the prophets/' 
— (Acts 24, v. 14.) 

Besides, it is greatly to my encouragement, to remember 
how often God has used the humblest instruments, in the ful- 
filment of His gracious purposes to his chosen people. — I will 
therefore be faithful, bold, and full of prayer. Never will I be 
ashamed to own Christ for my only master, in the midst of an 
evil generation ; and I will not doubt that he will put honor 
upon my simple dependence, and make me the channel through 
which to convey blessings to the souls of others. 



MY CONFESSIONS. S55 

If then, I u cry aloud, and spare not," against the danger of 
giving countenance to the unscriptural errors of Poperv, I do 
so, because I feel it is now become my most imperative duty : 
not with a view to excite animosities against the Roman 
Catholics, or to promote their antipathies against the Pro- 
testants : but, because we are not contending for trifles. 

I do pray that there be an abundant communication of help 
from that Holy Spirit, whose aid can strengthen the weakest 
for His work, and without whose influences to break up the 
fallow ground, and to water the seed when sown, all rich en- 
dowments, zeal and energy, and mental power, argument to 
convince, and eloquence to persuade, with all the faculties and 
affections of the head and the heart, would be useless. 

May the Holy Spirit of God inspire my soul only with the 
love of truth, and with a single eye to His glory ! 



CHAPTER XXXII. 



To-day I stand upon my defence ; and if, in the course of 
that defence, my accusers should themselves be proved guilty 
of the error which they will endeavour to fasten upon me, then 
I beseech them, for their own soul's sake, to look well to the 
awful predicament in which they stand, on the brink of 
eternity, and to listen patiently to me, who am only the echo 
of what J have heard, and read, from the pulpit, and in the 
writings of the most pious an enlightened of modern Protestant 
faithful preachers of the gospel. 

Reader ! whoever thou mayest be, unto whose hands this 
book is fallen, and who hast already accompanied me thus far, 
—let me beseech thee earnestly to give attention to what I am 
about to state-*-do not hastily turn over the following pages : 



356 MY CONFESSIONS. 

but pause to reflect that they may possibly contain the last 
warning... .the last entreaty from thy Heavenly Father that 
thou may est receive. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Here then let me point out the contrast which I have 
found existing between the Roman Catholic church and the 
Protestant church : between darkness and light : between error 
and truth : between the reading or not, or only the partial 
reading of the 

HOLY SCRIPTURES ! 

ASSERTIONS OF THE ROMAN CATHOLICS. 

TRADITIONS. 

<l All, saving truth, is not contained in the Holy Scriptures, 
but partly in unwritten traditions, which whoever does not 
receive with like piety and reverence as he doth the Scripture 
is accursed. — [Concil. Trident. Sess. 4. Decret. de Can* Script- 
and 7. H. Homes PrGtestant Memorial, p. 61.) 

CONTRADICTED BY THE SCRIPTURES. 

" All Scripture," says the apostle, " is given by inspiration 
of God." 

Yes ! the Bible is the lamp which God's own hand has 
lighted; and by its splendour, the darkness, that covers the 
nations shall be eventually and fully dispersed. 

" From a child," says St. Paul to Timothy, " thou hast 



MY CONFESSIONS. 357 

known the Holy Scriptures, which are ahle to make thee wise 
unto salvation. " 

Our Lord directs the Jews to " search the Scriptures. " 

St. Paul charges the Thessalonians, that " this epistle be 
read to all the holv brethren." 

" Seek," says the prophet, " out of the book of the law, 
and read. 

" Thy word," says David, " is a light to my feet and a lamp 
unto my path." 

Of all that which God has appointed for the advancement of 
His own glory, by the conversion of sinners, none has received 
more signal blessing than the reading of His word. God 
declares by the mouth of His prophet — " As the rain cometh 
down and the snow from Heaven, and returneth not thither, 
but watereth the earth and maketh it bring forth and bud, that 
it may give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater, so shall 
my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth ; it shall not 
return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I 
please ; and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it." 

We have here the promise of God Himself, that the use of 
his word shall not be ineffectual. Mark with what richness 
and beauty of oriental imagery, the prophet expresses the 
result. "Instead of the thorn, shall come up the fir-tree; 
and instead of the briar, shall come up the myrtle-tree ; and 
it shall be to the Lord for a name, for an everlasting sign 
which shall not be cut off." 

A martyr in England, who was going to bear his testimony 
amidst the flames, to the truths of the Gospel, opened his 
Testament for the last time, and prayed that he might be pointed 
to some passage, whose strong consolation might carry him 
through the appalling terrors of the scene which awaited him, 
God directed him to a text, which was the last upon which his 
eye rested. " This is life eternal, to know Thee, the only true 
God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent." — (St. Paul.) 
" Whatever things were written aforetime, were written for 



358 MY CONFESSIONS. 

our learning ; that we, through patience and comfort of the 
Scriptures might have hope." — (Rom. 15. 4.) 

" Ye shall not add unto the word which I command you." — 
(Deut. 4. 2.) 

" Every word of God is pure. Add thou not unto his 
word, lest He reprove thee, and thou be found a liar. "— (Prov, 
30, 5, 6.) 

" 1 testify unto every man that heareth the words of the 
prophecy of this book ; if any man shall add unto these, God 
shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book." 
—(Rev. 22, 8.) 

" If they speak not according to this word, it is because 
there is no light in them. — (Isa. 8. 20.) 

" They have Moses and the prophets ; let them hear them." 
—(Luke, 16, 29.) 

" This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased; hear 
ye him."— (Matt. 17, 5.) 

" All Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profit- 
able for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in 
righteousness, that the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly 
furnished unto all good works. — (2 Tim. 3, 15, 17.) 

Jesus Christ condemned the idle traditions which had been 
introduced by the Jewish doctors. 

" Why do ye transgress the commandments of God by your 
tradition ? ye have made the commandment of God of none 
effect by your tradition. In vain do they worship me, teach- 
ing for doctrines the commandments of men." — (Matt. 13, 
S, 6, 9.) 



MY CONFESSIONS. 359 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 



ASSERTIONS OF THE ROMISH CHURCH. 

" I receive the Holy Scriptures according to that sense 
which Holy Mother Church (to whom it belongs to judge of 
the true sense and interpretation of the Holy Scripture) did, 
and doth hold. Nor will I ever take and interpret it other- 
wise than according to the unanimous consent of the fathers." 
—(Creed of Pius IV., Art. 2.) 

" In matters of faith and morals, and whatever relates to 
the maintenance of christian doctrine, no one, confiding in his 
own judgment, shall dare to wrest the sacred Scriptures to his 
own sense of them, contrary to that which hath been held and 
still is held by the Holy Mother Church, whose right it is to 
judge of the true meaning and interpretation of Holy writ, or 
contrary to the unanimous consent of the Fathers, even though 
such interpretations should never be published. If any disobey, 
let them be denounced by the ordinaries, and punished/' 

CONTRADICTED BY THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. 

" Prove all things/' says St. Paul, "hold fast that which is 
good/— (1 Thess. v. 21.) 

" Beloved, believe not every spirit — or teacher — but try the 
spirits, whether they are of God : because many false prophets 
are gone out into the world. — (1 John, 4.1.) 

How are men to do this, if they must take all things upon 
trust, and without any examination whatever ? 

" I speak as unto wise men. Judge ye what I say"— (3 . Cor. 
10, 15.) 



360 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" Be ye ready always to give an answer to every man, that 
asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you. — (l. Pet. 3, 15.) 

But how can christians give such answer, unless they under- 
stand and judge of the grounds of faith themselves ? ' ' Though 
we," says St. Paul, " or an angel from heaven, preach any other 
gospel to you than that which ye have received, let him be ac- 
cursed, — (Gal. 1,8.) 

This passage plainly supposes that christians may read and 
can judge for themselves, when and what doctrines are con- 
trary to the gospel, and that they ought to do it, and not 
blindly rely upon any one ; no, not an apostle, or angel from 
Heaven. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

ASSERTION OF THE ROMISH CHURCH. 

"Inasmuch as it is manifest from experience, that if the 
Holy Bible, translated into the vulgar tongue, be indiscrimi- 
nately allowed to every one, the temerity of men will cause 
more evil than good to arise from it : it is on this point referred 
to the judgment of the bishops or inquisitors, who may, by 
the advice of the priest or the confessor, permit the reading of 
the Bible, translated into the vulgar tongue by catholic au- 
thors, to those persons whose faith and piety they apprehend 
will be augmented and not injured by it ; and this permission 
they must have in writing." 

" If any one shall have the presumption to read or pqssess 
the scriptures without a such written permission, he shall not 
receive absolution until he have first delivoed up such bible to 
the ordinary " — (Cone. Trid.) 



MY CONFESSIONS. 36 I 



CONTRADICTED BY THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. 

*' Seek ye the Book of the Lord, and read. — (Isa. 34, 16. )< 

M Search the Scriptures," is the command of Jesus Christ. 
(John, v. 99.) 

" Take unto you," says St. Paul to the Ephesians, without 
exception, " take unto you the sword of the Spirit, which is the 
word of God."— (Eph. 6, 17.) 

The apostle John writes to fathers, young men, and chil- 
dren.— (1 John 2, 1, 12, 13.) 

The Bereans are commended for their diligent searching of 
the Scriptures. — (Acts, 17, 11.) 

How constantly did Jesus and his apostles appeal to the 
written word, as the fixed standard of truth, in opposition alike 
to the devices of Satan and the traditions of men. "It is 
written" — "It is written" — "It is written," was the thrice 
repeated blow, that drove back the daring tempter of the se- 
cond Adam. 

What saith cur Lord Himself ? 

" Search the Scriptures ; they are they which testify of me" 

What saith St. John ? 

<e But these are written, that ye might believe that Jesus is the 
Christ, the son of God-, and that, believing, ye might have life 
through His name." 

" I will put my laws into their minds/ 5 says the Lord, " \ 
will put my laws into their hearts." 

But the question I would put to Roman Catholics, to make 
the matter practical, is this: " How can ye without the peru- 
sal of the Bible, have the laws of God transcribed in your 
hearts ? How can ye, have them written in your hearts, so 
that, in every precept of the Bible, you may make a law, and 
feel it to be your privilege in every action of your lives to be 
in obedience thereto ?" 

" I have an exceeding fondness," says the Rev. J. Stratten, 
" I have an exceeding fondness for that clause in the Lithurgy ; 

R 



362 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" Write all these thy laws in our hearts, Lord, we beseech 
Thee ! 

Oh no ! the Scriptures are no religion for one nation. They 
are not contained within one circle, district, or division. The 
Scriptures break all bounds ; support themselves under all diffi- 
culties ; they bound over the everlasting mountains and the 
eternal hills, the wide ocean, the seas and rivers, in bondage 
and in freedom ; — they are for all the world. 

We clearly see that neither our Lord nor his apostles had 
any idea of the dangers which might arise from the indiscrimi- 
nate reading of God's word. 

Of this blessed word it was that Job declared, " I have es- 
teemed the words of his mouth more than my necessary food/* 
— (Job, 23, 12.) And that David exclaims, " The law of the 
Lord is perfect converting the soul ; the testimony of the Lord 
is sure ; making wise the simple. The statutes of the Lord 
are right, rejoicing the heart. The judgments of the Lord are 
true and righteous altogether ; more to be desired are they 
than gold; sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb." — 
(Ps. 3, 19). 

But to pass by passages, which, almost without number, 
might be brought forward on this point from the Scriptures of 
the old, let us turn for one moment to those of the New Tes- 
tament. 

The prayer of our Blessed Lord for his apostles was, " sanc- 
tify them through thy word — Thy word is truth." 

Neither prayed He for these alone, but for them also, t€ who 
should believe in Him through their word." — (John 17.) 

The Bible contains God's solemn covenant ordered in all 
things and sure — (2 Sam. 23, 6.) — but, after all, we must 
personally and individually enter into covenant with God by 
Jesus Christ. 

Religion must not be a matter between our soul and the soul 
of man, but between our soul and God. 

We must do as we are bid " vow, and pray unto the Lord 
our God." — (Psalm 76, 11.) We must stand to the covenant; 



MY CONFESSIONS. 363 

use it ; trust it ; plead it ; rejoice in it ; and never, never for- 
sake it ! 

If the mere absence of the Bible, the non-reading of the 
spirit- stirring* pages of the Bible, must be exceedingly unfa- 
vourable for that high tone of moral principle, that holiness of 
heart and life, that spiritual-mindedness, at which every true 
and faithful christian should be aiming — and this all protestants 
know, who, if they neglect the Bible for a week, they feel 
themselves becoming cold and worldly-minded; that tempta- 
tion gathers force ; and that sin is ready to prevail — what then 
must it be where either no Scriptures, or only brief, scanty 
portions, intermixed with human traditions, are read from one 
year's end to another ? 

The Bible, to be read profitably, must be read with reverence. 
It is the word which God speaks to His poor, lost, un- 
worthy creatures. Let them receive it with the deepest 
humility. It is the word of the King of kings ; let His 
subjects be prostrate while He addresses them. 

The Bible must be read with prayer* Without prayer 
there can be no profit ! And, lastly, with respect to the 
manner of searching the Scriptures, it is requisite a teachable 
spirit ; for if we are self-confident, and self- dependant, 720 
benefit can result. 

If our path be encompassed with clouds — if the murkiness 
of night have enveloped cur road — let us open the Bible! 
From the word of God we shall obtain direction. 

Are we in doubt ?- — We need but go to the word of God, 
and we shall find, that, on the same point which engages 
our minds and excites anxious doubts, there is a principle 
laid down, and we have but to apply that principle to the 
case in hand, — and our perplexity is ended. 

The christian life is a state of continual warfare ; and if 
we would come off victorious from the conflict with foes 
within, as well as with foes without, it can be only by wielding 
the weapon of heavenly temper — the Bible — which the Lord 
puts into the hands of His people. 

r 2 



364 MY CONFESSIONS. 

The strong holds of Satan are ignorance, darkness, prejudice 
superstition ; all which tend to shut the light and hinder 
the spread of divine truth. — Selected portions of God's word 
dealt out in scanty and stealthy measures are not sufficient. 

The whole inspired Book is a message from God to man ; 
a record of the Divine Mercy to a sinful world. — Let none 
presume to add to, or detract from it, Let it go forth in 
all its fullness, in all its beauty, in all its native sim- 
plicity and consistency, far as man extends. .. .far as lost 
sinners are to he found, who need pardon in a Saviour's 
blood. — It belongs to all. It addresses all. 

The great engine of civilization is the written word of 
the Most High. And if we visit a tribe of our race in 
the lowest depths of barbarism, and desire to bring up the 
debased creatures, and place them on their just level in the 
scale of existence, it is not by the enactments of earthly 
legislation, any more than by the tyrannizings of earthly might, 
that we may look to bring speedily round the wished-for 
result. The effective machinery of Christianity, and Chris- 
tianity alone can do it. Let us propagate the tenets of 
this religion, as registered in the Bible, and a mighty re- 
generation will go cut over the face of the long-degraded 
community. 

I am persuaded there is no book, by the perusal of which 
the mind is so much strengthened, and so much enlarged, 
as it is by the perusal of the Bible. There is nothing so 
likely to elevate, and endow v^ ith new vigour, our faculties, 
as the bringing them into contact with stupendous truths, 
and the setting them to grasp and measure those truths. 

In all the wide range of sciences, what science is there 
comparable, in its sublimity and difficulty, to the science 
of God ? — In all the annals of mankind, what history is there 
so curious, and so rivetting, as that of the infancy of man, 
the cradling — so to speak — of the earth's population ? AYhere 
will we find a lawgiver from whose edicts may be learned 
a nobler jurisprudence than is exhibited by the statute — 



MY CONFESSIONS. 365 

book of Moses ? Whence will we gather such vivid illus- 
trations of the power of truth as are furnished hy the march 
of Christianity, when Apostles stood alone, and a whole world 
was against them ? — And, if there be no book which treats 
of a loftier science, and none which more throroughly disclosed 
the principles of right and the powers of truth ; why then, 
just so far as mental improvement can be proved dependant 
on acquaintance with scientific matters, or historical, cr legal, 
or ethical, the Bible, beyond all other books, must be counted 
the grand engine for achieving that improvement ; and men 
claim for the Holy Scriptures the illustrious distinction, that, 
containing whatsoever is needful for saving the soul, they 
present also whatsoever is best calculated for strengthening 
the intellect. 

Of all the boons, which God has bestowed on this apostate 
and orphaned creation, the Bible is the noblest and most 
precious. The Bible is the developement of man's immortality, 
the guide which informs him how he may move off trium- 
phantly from a contracted and temporary scene, and grasp 
destinies of unbounded splendour, eternity his life-time, and 
infinity his home. It is the record which tells us that this 
rebellious section of God's unlimited empire is not excluded 
from our Maker's compassion, but that the creatures, who 
move upon its surface, though they have basely sepulchered 
in sinfulness and corruption the magnificence of their nature, 
are yet so dear in their ruin to Him who first formed them, 
that He hath bowed down the heavens in order to open their 
graves. 

The opening of God's words is accompanied, or followed 
by the rousing up of dormant energies. The sphere, which 
the sand grain seemed to fill, is required to dilate, and take in 
Immensity. The arm which plucked a leaf, or lifted a pebble, 
must strive to wrench up the oak, and raise the mountain ; 
and in striving it strengthens. The mind, employed on what 
is great, becomes itself greater; busied with what is bright, 
it becomes itself brighter. To raise the standard of mind 



366 MY CONFESSIONS. 

there is no mightier principle, than that the Bible outweighs 
ten thousand Encyclopaedias. 

If the Bible were read by the peasant and by the mechanic, 
we should be then surrounded by a greater number of en- 
lightened and intelligent persons than we are now-a-day where 
the school-master spreads, at a penny each, his innumerable 
magazines, which, whilst they appear to encourage the sciences 
kindle discontent in the soul of man, and make him think 
much of himself. Knowledge is power ! I admit in all 
its breath, the truth of this saying. It is power — aye, a 
fatal power, and perilous. The school-master is the grand 
engine for revolutionizing a world. Let knowledge be gene- 
rally diffused, and the fear of God be kept in the back-ground ; 
and he has done the same for a country as if he had laid 
the gunpowder under its every institution : there needs only 
the igniting of a match, and the land shall be strewed with 
the fragments of all that is glorious and venerable, The march 
of mind, which leaves the Bible in the rear, is like that 
of our first parents in Paradise, towards knowledge, but, 
at the same time, towards death ! 

Would to God that all the Roman Catholics could know to 
how many souls the Bible has been made a blessing, a comfort 
and the means of salvation ! The day of the glorification 
of Jesus in His assembled people will alone make it known ! 

How many eyes have wept over its pages ! David could 
say, " Rivers of water run down mine eyes because they 
keep not thy law." — (Psalm 8= verse 119, 136.) How many 
hearts has that word first rent, and then healed ; first pricked, 
and wounded, and broke, and then poured in oil and balm, 
and gently bound them up ! — How many, with that Book 
as their directory and guide, have been gathered to their 
graves in peace, "in sure and certain hope of the resurrection 
to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ V 9 

The flood may sweep away the prosperity of the Protestant 
Church and nation ; but the ark in which God has shut it 
in, will ride securely upon the waters. Though tumults 



MY CONFESSIONS. S07 

should prevail and evil passions be let loose to desolate the 
English nation — though the strong pillars of earthly kingdoms 
should fail, and the materials of worldly dominion be broken 
up, their hope will remain unchanged, for their foundations 
will be untouched. 

" Let all Christian Protestants, therefore, stand fast in 
the liberty wherewith Christ hath made them free : and 
let them be not again entangled in the yoke of bondage !" 
(Gal. chap. 5, verse 1.) 

" Let them flee from idolatry. — (1 Cor. chap, lo, verse 14.) 

'* Let the word of Christ" (and not human traditions) 
M dwell in them richly in all wisdom,"— (Col. 3, verse l6.) 
"for other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, 
which is, Jesus Christ." — (l Cor. chap. 3 verse 2.) 

M Let them renounce the hidden things of dishonesty, not 
walking in craftiness, not handling the word of God deceitfully, 
but by manifestation of the truth, commending themselves 
to every man's conscience in the sight of God." — (Col. chap. 1, 
verse 28.) 

May they never forget the following speech — 

*• If any man teach otherwise, and consent not to whole- 
some words, even the words of our Lord Jesus Christ, and 
to the doctrine, which is according to godliness, from such 
withdraw thyself." — (l Timothy chap. 6, verses S — 5.) 

" Come out from among them, and be ye separate saith the 
Lord." — (2 Cor. chap. 6, verse 17.) 

Let Christian Protestants love the Bible, which has been 
the counsellor and guide of so many weary pilgrims ; and 
ever pray for the peace of our Jerusalem, for, " they shall 
prosper that love thee!" — (Psalm 122, verse 6.) Let them 
recollect, that, notwithstanding all the assaults to which the 
Protestant Church has been exposed*, yet, through the sup- 

* Under Charles IX. the Protestants were severally oppressed ; and 
on the 24th of August 1572, five hundred gentlemen and ten thousand 
of the lowest order were perfidiously assassinated at Paris, while m 



868 MY CONFESSIONS. 

porting grace of God, she has not been overwhelmed, 
Troubled, indeed, she has been on every side ; perplexed, but 
not in despair ; persecuted, but not forsaken ; cast down, but 
not destroyed. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

PRETENDED SUPREMACY OF THE ROMAN CHURCH. 

ASSERTION OF THE ROMISH CHURCH, 

"I acknowledge the holy Catholic Apostolic Roman Church 
to be the mother and mistress of all churches ; and I pro- 



less than forty thousand were massacred in the provinces. On re- 
ceiving intelligence of this wholesale slaughter, Pope Gregory XIII. 
(whose predecessor Saint Pius V. was privy to the conspiracy against 
the French Protestants) was so overjoyed, that he commanded a dis- 
charge of artillery to be made ; ordered the cardinals to return thanks 
to Almighty God ; and caused a medal to he struck to commemorate 
this detestable atrocity. 

Upon the whole, scarcely a country in Europe, in which Protestants 
have been found, has been exempted from the cruelties inflicted by 

Papal Rome cruelties which equalled, and often exceeded in 

severity those which had been experienced in the earlier ages of the 
Nero and Domitian. Italy, the Netherlands, Spain, France, parts of 
Germany, and England, were the countries which suffered most severely 
during protracted and sanguinary persecutions. 

The authorities for the preceding statement of facts, are the General 
Ecclesiastical Histories of Mosheim and Goodrich, Grant's Summary of 
the English Church, Mr. Soames's History of the Reformation of 
England : and Bishop Bull, on the Corruptions of the Church of Rome, 
in reply to Bossuet, Section II. — (Works, vol. ii. pp. 239, 240. Oxford 
1827. 8vo.) 



MY CONFESSIONS. 36*) 

mise to swear true obedience to the pope of rome, who 
is the successor of St. Peter, the Prince of the Apostles, 
and Vicar of Jesus Christ" — (Creed of Pius IV. art. 2.) 

IN THE BULL OF BONIFACE VIII. 

I find, 

" We declare, affirm, decree, and pronounce, to every 
human creature, that it is absolutely necessary to salvation , 
to be subject to the Pope of Rome/' 

CONTRADICTED BY THE HOLY SCRIPTURES* 

Jesus Christ said, " Ye know, that the princes of the Gentiles 
exercise dominion over them ; and they that are great, exercise 
authority upon them. But it shall not be so among you : 
but, whosoever mill be great among you, lei him be your servant : 
even as the Son of Man came, not to be ministered unto, but to 
minister, and to give his life a ransom for many" — (Matt. 2Q ? 
verse 25 — 28.) 

St. Paul, addressing the Ephesians, says, " Ye are built 
upon the foundation of the Apostles and Prophets, Jesus Christ 
himself being the chief comer stone." — (Eph. chap. 2 verse 20.) 

The title of " Vicar of Jesus Christ/' and " Head of the 
Universal Church/' arrogated by the Pope, is an encroachment 
upon the supreme dignity of Christ, the only Head of the 
Church, and whom alone we are to hear. " God gave him 
(Christ) to be the head over all things to the Church" 
(Eph. chap. 1, verse 22.) 

"Be ye not called Rabbi ; for one is your master, even 
Christ. Neither be ye called masters ; for one is your master, 
even Christ." — (Matt. 23, verses 8, 10.) 

The fiction of Papal supremacy is unsupported by Scripture, 
and is a novelty of the seventh century.* 

* Vide Bishop Burgess's Protestant's Catechism, where all these 
topics are unanswerably proved. 

R 3 



370 MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

INFALLIBILITY OF THE ROMAN CHURCH. 

ASSERTIONS OF THE ROMAN CHURCH. 

" The Holy Spirit, who presides over the church, governs 
her by no other than apostolic men ; and this Spirit, first im- 
parted to the apostles, has, by the infinite goodness of God, 
always continued in the church." — (Cateclusmns ex decreto 
Voncilii Tridentini ad Parochos, Pii Quint i, Po?it. Max. jussu 
editus. p.p. €4, 65, Romce, 1566, folio.) 

CONTRADICTED BY THE SCRIPTURES. 

" Because of unbelief they (the Jewish church,) were broken 
off ; but thou standest by faith. Be not high-minded, but fear." 
*-(Rom. xi. 2 0.) 

From this passage we perceive : 

1st. That any such infallibility as the modern Romish church 
pretends to arrogate to herself, as to say that she cannot err, 
is totally forbidden : and, 

2nd. Although at the time the apostle wrote this epistle, 
the Roman church stood by faith, yet she was exhorted to 
fear, lest she should fall from the faith— which exhortation 
would be altogether needless if she could not err, or fall from 
the faith. 

" For," the apostle adds, " if God spared not the natural 
branches, take heed lest he sj:are not thee. Behold, there- 
fore, the goodness and the severity cf God: on them which fell, 
severity ; but towards thee, goodness, if thou continue in his good- 
ness; otherwise thou shalt also be cut off" — (Rom. xi. 2 J, 22 «) 



MY CONFESSIONS. $?! 

In this passage the apostle shows that the Roman church 
may fall away from the truth and be cut off, as well as other 
churches : otherwise, if she only had been privileged with 
infallibility, the exhortation and denunciation just cited, would 
have been altogether unnecessary ; neither would he have 
expressed himself continually : " If thou continue" 

The papal claim to infallibility has no foundation in 
scripture, reason, or antiquity. Romanists, it is well known, 
are not agreed among themselves, where this pretended in- 
fallibility exists ; whether in the Pope, or in the general 
council, or in the diffusive body of christians. Both Popes 
and general councils have notoriously contradicted one another : 
and, therefore, neither of them can be infallible. 

To mention only a few instances, Gregory, surnamed the 
Great, about the latter end of the sixth century, declared that 
whoever should claim the universal episcopate, w r ould be the 
forerunner of Antichrist. — (Epist. lib. vi. ep, 30.) Yet this 
very universal Episcopate, as we all know, was assumed, three 
or four years afterwards by Boniface III, and has been sub- 
sequently claimed by numerous pontiffs who have sat, in w T hat 
they are pleased to call, the chair of St. Peter. 

Pope Sextus V, in 1590, published an edition of the Latin 
Vulgate, w T hich, by a Bull, he commanded should be received 
every where, and in ail cases, for true, legitimate, authentic, 
and undoubted ; and that all future editions should be made 
conformable to this, not the least syllable being changed, 
added or omitted, on pain of the greater excommunication. 
Notwithstanding all his infallibility, the equally infal* 
lible Clement VII, not very long after, revoked the decree 
of Sixtus, suppi*essed his edition, and published another of 
his own, in which he made more than 2000 corrections.* 

* For a full exposure of the unfounded claims to infallibility, the 
reader is referred to the Rev. W. Keary's " Elistorical Review of Papal 
and Conciliar Infallibility," London, 1826,, 12mo. as well as Mr 
Edgar's masterly " Treatise on the Variations of Popery," Dubiin ? 
1831, 8vo. 



372 MY CONFESSIONS. 

The Pope infallible ? 

" There is none righteous, no, not one!" — (Rom. chap. 3, 
v. 10.) 

" Be not wise in your own conceits."— (Rom. chap. 12, 
v. 16.) 

" We are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousness 
is as filthy rags, and we all do fade as a leaf, and our iniquities, 
like the wind, have taken us away/ 7 — (Isa. chap, 54, v. 6.) 

The great engine by which the prince of darkness has so 
long held in thraldrom the larger portion of the civilized world 
(and Italy most especially . . . . Italy who must never hope to 
re-become a nation and free, unless her church be reformed,) 
has been the infallibility of the Roman catholic church. 

All the great errors which have stained that church, may 
he traced to this source. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE SACRIFICE OF THE MASS. 

ASSERTIONS OF THE ROMISH CHURCH. 

" I profess that in the mass is offered to God a true, 
proper, and propitiating sacrifice for the quick (or living) and 
dead."— (Creed of Pius IV, Art. 15.) 

B * If any one say that in the mass there is not a true and 
proper sacrifice offered unto God ; let him be accursed/' — 
(Cone. Trid. Sess. 22. De Sacrificio Missse, Can. 1.) 

CONTRADICTED BY THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. 

s( By one offering he hath perfected for ever them that 
are sanctified" — (Heb. chap. 10, v. 14.) 



MT CONFESSIONS. 373 

c< Christ being come an High Priest of good things to come— 
he entered in once into the holy place, having obtained eternal 
redemption for us." — (Heb. chap. 9, v. 12.) 

By His own oblation of Himself upon the cross, Jesus Christ 
has made a full, perfect and sufficient atonement. 

'* If any man sin 3 we have an advocate vnth the father ', Jesus 
Christ the righteous, and he is the propitiation for our 
sins, and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole 
world."— (I. John, 2, v. 13.) 

" Christ hath redeemed us from the curse of the law." — • 
(Gal. chap 3, v. 13.) 

But, do the Roman catholics know what the Romish mass 
is ? perhaps they do not. — There is lamentable ignorance 
abroad in such subjects.— Let them, therefore, bear with me 
while I inform them. 

The priest going to the altar to celebrate mass, is provided 
with a wafer composed of flour and water ; over this wafer he 
pronounces certain words, which are supposed, provided the 
priest's intention go along with them, to change the paste truly and 
substantially, into the literal body, blood, soul, and divinity 
of Jesus Christ. The priest, next, pretends to offer Christ, 
(for he is supposed to have His whole body, blood, soul and 
divinity really and substantially under the form of a wafer 
between his finger and thumb !) as a propitiating sacrifice for 
the sins of the living and the dead ! 

Thus, the doctrine of the mass charges the sacrifice of 
Christ with imperfection, by asserting that it needs to be 
repeated.* 

The high priests of Aaron's lme entered, year by year, into 
the holiest of all, making continually a new atonement " for 
themselves and for the errors of the people." But He who 
was constituted " after the order of Melehisadec," King as 
well as priest, entered it once, not " by the blood of goats and 
and calves, but by His own blood," and needed never to 
return and ascend again the altar of sacrifice. 

* The reader is earnestly requested to study the ninth and tenth 
chapters of the Epistle to the Hebrews on this subject. 



S74 MY CONFESSIONS. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

ORIGINAL SIN, JUSTIFICATION AND MERIT. 

ASSERTIONS OF THE ROMISH CHURCH. 

" I embrace and receive all things and every thing, which 
have been defined and declared in the Holy Council of Trent, 
concerning Original Sin and Justification." — (Creed of Pius IV, 
Art. 4.) 

" The Holy Council farther declares, that it is not its 
design to include in this decree, which treats of Original Sin, 
the blessed and immaculate Virgin Mary, the Mother of 
God." — (Cone. Trid. Sess. 5 de Peccato Originali, Can. 5.) 

" If any one shall say, that men are justified, either by 
the imputation of Christ's righteousness alone, or only by the 
remission of sins, to the exclusion of grace and charity, which 
is poured into their hearts by the Holy Spirit, and which is 
inherent in them ; or that the grace by which we are justified 
is the favor of God alone ; let him be accursed." — (lb. Can. 2.) 

" If any shall say, that the good works of a justified man 
are in such sense the gifts of God, that they are not also his 
worthy merits ; or that he, being justified by his good works, 
which are wrought by him through the grace of God and the 
merits of Jesus Christ, of whom he is a living member, does 
not really deserve increase of grace, eternal life, the enjoy- 
ment of that eternal life if he die in a state of grace, and even 
an encrease of glory ; let him be accursed." — (Ibid, Can. 32.) 

CONTRADICTED BY THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. 

" The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord!" — 
Psalm 37, v. 23.) 



MY CONFESSIONS. 375 

" There is no man that sinneth not." — (I Kings, chap. 18, 
v. 46.) 

" The whole world lieth in wickedness." — (I John, 
chap. 5, v. 19.) 

" My strength will I ascribe unto Thee ; for Thou art the 
God of my refuge." — (Psalm 59, v. 9.) 

" The Lord looked down from heaven upon the children 
of men, to see if there were any that did understand and seek 
after God. They are all gone aside ; they are altogether 
become filthy ; there is none that doeth good; no, not one. 
All have sinned, and come short of the glory of God," — 
(Psalm 14, v. 2, 3. Rom, chap. 3, 10, 18, 23.) 

" All we, like sheep, have gone astray." — (Isaiah, chap. 53, 
v. 6.) 

How strongly and explicitly the Scriptures assert that we are 
justified, or accounted righteous before God, only for the 
merit of our Lord Jesus Christ, through faith, and not meri- 
toriously by our own works, let the following passages attest — 

■" The righteousness of God is by faith of Jesus Christ 
unto all and upon all them that believe ; for there is no diffe- 
rence ; for all have sinned and come short of the glory of God ; 
being justfiisd freely ey his grace through the redemption 
that is in Christ Jesus." — (Rom. chap. 3, v. 22, 23, 24.) 

" Where is boasting then ?" 

" It is excluded." 

■ - Ey what law ?— Of work ?" 

" Nay, but by the law of faith. — Therefore we conclude 
that a man is justified by faith without the deeds of the law." 
— (Rom. chap. 3, v. 23, 24, 27, 28.) 

'* By grace are ye saved, through faith, and that not of 
ourselves ; it is the gift of God : not of works, lest any man 
should boast" — (Eph. chap. 2, v. 8, 9.) 

*' Enter not into judgment with thy servant for in thy sight 
shall no flesh living be justified" — (Psalm 143, v. 2.) 

Man is a fallen being, with faculties weakened, if not 
wholly incapacitated for moral achievement. Yet the matter 



376 MY CONFESSIONS. 

of fact is, that man's moral disability is not to be described, 
and not understood, theoretically. We want some bold, de- 
finite, and tangible measurements. But we shall find these 
only in the work of Christ Jesus. I learn the depth to which 
I have sunk, from the length of chain let down to updraw me. 
I ascertain the mightiness of the ruin by examining the 
machinery of restoration. I gather that I must be, in the 
broadest sense, unable to effect deliverance for myself, from 
observing that none less than the Son of the Highest had 
strength enough to fight the battles of our race. In the his- 
tory of Incarnation and Crucifixion, I read, in characters not 
to be misinterpreted, the announcements, that man has de- 
stroyed himself, and that whatever his original powers, he 
is now void of ability to turn unto God, and do things well- 
pleasing in His sight. 

" Who am I ?" said David, when he felt the privilege of a 
temple being allowed to rise in Jerusalem, and, at the same time 
remembered how entirely it was of God that there was either 
the ability, or the readiness to build the structure. " Who 
am I, and what is my people, that we should be able to 
offer so willingly after this sort ? For all things come of Thee, 
and of Thine own have we given Thee." 

I regard the words before me, as resisting, with singular 
power, the notion that a creature can merit. 

There is no point in theology which requires to be oftener 
stated, or more carefully established, than the impossibility 
that a creature should merit at the hands of the Creator. 

We find ourselves able to deserve well of one another, to 
confer favors and to contract debts. But when we carry up 
our thoughts from the finite to the infinite, we quite forget 
the total change in the relationship ; and we perceive not that 
the position in which we stand to our Maker, excludes those 
deservings which, unquestionably, have place between man 
and man. 

There cannot be a question, whose decision involves infe- 
rences of greater practical moment. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 377 

If I can merit, salvation may be partly of debt, and I may 
earn it as wages. If [ can not merit, salvation must be wholly 
of grace, and I must receive it as a gift. 

Now I think that, in examining the words : " For all things 
come of Thee, and of thine own have we given Thee/' we may 
find powerful reasons from which to conclude the impossibility 
of merit. 

It is God, and God alone that works all the good we do. 

" Thou art near, O Lord !"— (Psalm 119, v. 151.) 

'* The Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand/' — (Psalm 121. 
v. 5.) 

It is an august and an overpowering thought, that God 
should be alike present in the heart of all men as on every 
star, and in each of its minutest recesses ; that though there 
be a vast employment of the mechanism of second causes, there 
is not wrought a beneficial effect throughout the boundless 
expansions of creation, whose actual authorship can be referred 
to any thing short of the great First cause. The Creator 
knows nothing whether of distance or time. Inhabiting 
sublimely both Infinity and Eternity, there cannot be the spot 
in space, nor the instant in duration, when and where He is 
not equally present, 

The popish notion of creature-merit is a blasphemy. Who 
can think of being profitable unto God, when he remembers 
the independence of Deity : " When ye shall have done all 
those things which are commanded you," says our Saviour, 
" say we are unprofitable servants," and, if unprofitable, 
certainly not meritorious ; " we have done that which it was 
our duty to do. But as there is not one jot less than duty 
prescribes, neither is there one jot more. God gave all 
which is brought to Him. His, the glowing love ! His, the 
soaring intellect i His, the awful vigour ! His, the beautiful 
lowliness ! 

We will find one man thinking that, if he repent, he shall 
be pardoned : in other words, he supposes that there is a. 
virtue in repentance which causes it to procure forgiveness. 
Thus repentance is exhibited as meritorious ; and how can it 



378 MY CONFESSIONS. 

be simply proved that it is not meritorious ? — Why allowing 
that man can repent of himself, which he cannot : 

" What is the repentance on which he presumes ? What is 
there of his own ? 

The tears ? they are but the dew of an eye w T hich is God's. 

The sighs ? they are but the heavings of a heart which is 
God's. 

The resolutions ? they are but the workings of faculties 
which are God's. 

The amendment ? it is but the better employment of a life 
which is God's. 

" If God peradventure will give them repentance to the ac- 
knowledging of the truth." — (II Timothy, chap. 2, v. <25.) 

" The salvation of the righteous is of the Lord," — (Psalm 37, 
v. 39.) 

Where is the merit ? 

Again : some men will speak of being justified by faith, 
till they come to ascribe merit to faith. 

But how can faith be a a meritorious act ? What is faith 
but such an assent of the understanding to God's word as binds 
the heart to God's service ? And whose is the understanding, 
if it be not God's? Whose is the heart, if it be not God's? 
And if faith be nothing but the rendering to God that intel- 
lect and that energy, which we have received from God, how 
can faith deserve of God ? 

Oh ! as with repentance, so with faith ; away with the 
notion of merit. 

And where then is the merit of works ? Oh, let us throw into 
one heap each power of the mind, each energy of the body ; 
let us use in God's service each grain of our substance, each 
second of our time ; let us give to the Almighty every throb 
of the pulse, every drawing of the breath ; let us labour and 
strive, and be instant, in season and out of season ; and let 
the steepness of the mountain daunt us not, and the swellings 
of the ocean deter us not, and the ruggedness of the desert 
appal us not, but on, still on, in toiling for our Maker ; and 
dream, and talk, and boast, of merit, when we can find the 



MY CONFESSIONS. 379 

particle of the heap, or the shred in the exploit, which we may 
exclude from the confession, " All things come of Thee, and 
of thine own, O God, have we given Thee !" 



CHAPTER XL. 

AURICULAR CONFESSION.* 

ASSERTION OF THE ROMISH CHURCH. 

" If any one shall deny either that sacramental confession 
was instituted by divine command, or that it is necessary to 
salvation ; or shall say that the practice of secretly confessing 
to the priest alone, as it has ever been observed from the be- 
ginning by the Catholic Church, and is still observed, is fo- 
reign to the institution and command of Christ, let him be 
accursed." — (Cone. Trid. Sess. 14. De Pseuitentia Sacramento, 
Can. 6.) 

CONTRADICTED BY HOLY SCRIPTURE. 

" I acknowledge my sin unto Thee and mine iniquity have 
I not hid." 

" 1 said I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord ; and 
Thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin." — (Psalm xxxii, 5.) 

" If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the 
truth is not in us. But if we corf ess our sin, He — that is, God — 

* Auricular Confession to a priest was not introduced before the 
thirteenth century ; and this, the of Trent Council unblushingly says, 
" has ever been observed from the beginning 1" In the Dictionary of 
the English and Italian Languages, by Joseph Baretti, we find Auri- 
cular Confession translated into Italian, with the following addition, " a 
thing invented by the priests that they may pry into our secrets" 



380 my CONFESSIONS 

is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from 
all unrighteousness." — (! John, chapter 1, v„ 8, 9.) 

" I prayed unto the Lord my God, and made my confession, 
and said, we have sinned and have committed iniquity, and 
have done wickedly, and have rebelled, even by departing from 
thy precepts, and from thy judgments. To the Lord our God 
belong mercies and forgiveness, though we have rebelled 
against him, — (Daniel, 9, v. 2, 7.) 



CHAPTER XLI. 

THE EXTREME UNCTION. 

ASSERTIONS OF THE ROMISH CHURCH. 

" If any one shall say that the sacred unction of the sick 
does not confer grace, nor forgive sin, nor relieve the sick ; 
but that its power has ceased, as if the gift of healing existed 
only in past ages let him be accursed. 

'* If any one shall affirm that extreme unction is not truly 
and properly a sacrament, instituted by Christ our Lord, and 
published by the blessed apostle James, but only a ceremony 
received from the fathers, or a human invention, let him be 
accursed/ ' 

CONTRADICTED BY SCRIPTURES. 

Extreme unction is practised by the priests of the Romish 
Church upon the sick, when they are supposed to be past reco- 
very. 

It was not instituted by Jesus Christ as a sacrament. Jesus 
Christ instituted only two sacraments, viz. Baptism — u go ye 



MY CONFESSIONS. 381 

and teach all nations, hap Using them," — (Matt, xxviii, 1Q — ) 
and the Lord's Supper.'! — (Luke xxii, 19, 20, and the parallel 
passages.) 

Peter Lombard, a writer of the twelfth century, was the 
first who reckons seven sacraments, adding to Baptism and 
the Lord's Supper, these five, viz. Confirmation, Penance, Or- 
ders, Matrimony, and Extreme unction. 

Pope Eugenius IV, about the middle of the fifteenth century, 
pronounced that these H^e, as well as the other two, ought to 
be considered as sacraments ; and in the following century, the 
Council of Trent and Pope Pius IV. declared them to be equally 
Sacraments. 

The following are the only two passages, alleged by the 
Romish Church, to show that this extreme unction ought to 
be considered as a sacrament. 

" Mark" relates that the apostles, to whom Christ gave a 
temporary commission to preach in Judea, anointed with oil many 
that were sick and healed them, vi, 14. And the apostle " James" 
gives this direction in his epistle. "Is any sick among you, 
let him call for the elders of the church ; and let them pray 
over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord : and 
the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise 
him up." — (v. 14, 15.) 

Among other miraculous gifts communicated by Christ to 
His apostles during His ministry, and afterwards by the Holy 
Ghost to the early preachers of the Gospel, was that of curing 
diseases ; and it is evident that both the above passages refer 
to the exercise of that supernatural power. Consequently, the 
efficacy of anointing with oil would cease, when that power 
was withdrawn from the church. Moreover, the unction 
spoken of by Mark and James was for the purpose of restoring 
the sick to health, and not for the good of souls when life was 
despaired of. 

So of the apostles we read that " they cast out many devils, 
and anointed with oil many that were sick, and healed them," 
—(Mark 6, v, 13.) 



382 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Why, this is not anointing with oil the sick, that they may 
die securely, but that the sick may live, and repent, and be- 
lieve, and glorify God on earth. 

It is sad to see Popery following its votaries, and holding 
them in bondage to the last moments of life, so that a man 
cannot die in peace, till he has received extreme unction from 
the priest ! 



CHAPTER XLIL 

PURGATORY. 

ASSERTIONS OF THE ROMISH CHURCH. 

Purgatory is defined by Cardinal Bellarmine, to be that 
place in which the souls of those persons are purified, who 
were not fully cleansed on earth ; in order that they may be 
prepared for heaven, wherein nothing shall enter that defil- 
eth."— (De Purgatorio, Lib. i. cap. i.) 

t( I constantly hold that there is a purgatory, and that the 
souls detained there are assisted by the prayers of the faithful/' 
—(Creed of Fius IV. Art. 8.) 

"There is a Purgatory: and the souls there detained, are 
helped by masses, prayers, alms, and other good works of the 
living."— (Cone. Trid. Sess. 25, Decret de Purgat.) 

CONTRADICTED BY THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. 

" It is appointed unto men once to die ; but after this, the 
judgment" — (Hebr. ix, 27.) 

And in 1 Sam. xxv. 29.— Matt. vii. 13, 14.; viii, 11, 12,; 



MY CONFESSIONS. 383 

and Luke xvi, 22, 23, mention is made only of a twofold re- 
ceptacle of souls after death. The penitent Thief was to be 
that day in Paradise. — (Luke 23, 43.) 

Yea, it is sad that popery attempts to follow men beyond 
the grave, holding souls in a Purgatory, for the proof of which 
we search the Scriptures in vain ; the Scriptures saying, 
"where the Tree falleth, there it shall be."— -(Eccles. 11. 3.) 
"There is no work nor device in the grave." — Eccl. 9. 10.) 
A great gulf is fixed between heaven and hell, so that there 
can be no passage for any, from the one place to the other." 
(Luke 16. 26.) 

" The blood of Christ cleanseth us from all sin J' — (1 John, 
1, v. 7.) 

Those who are united to Christ by faith, have nothing to 
fear. " There is now no condemnation to them which are in 
Christ Jesus/' — (Rom. 8. i.) 

" Being justified by faith we have peace with God through 
our Lord Jesus Christ. — (v. i.) 

There is absolutely nothing wanting to the salvation, which 
Christ has merited for all that believe in Him. 

" He is able to save them to the uttermost, that come unto 
God by Him, seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for 
them."— (Heb. 6, 25.) 

The souls of the faithful immediately after they are delivered 
from the burthens of the flesh, are in joy and felicity. "I 
heard a voice from Heaven, saying unto me, ' Write : blessed 
are the dead whichdie in the Lord from henceforth ; yea, saith 
the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours ; and their 
works do follow them.' "— (Rev. 14. 13.*) 

Christ is "able to save to the uttermost," on the very 



* The practice of praying for the dead began in the third century ; 
but Purgatory was not even mentioned until long after. It was at first 
doubtfully received, and was not introduced until the time of Gregory, 
in the beginning of the seventh century, nor made an article of faith 
until December 1563. 



384 MY CONFESSIONS. 

ground that " He ever liveth to make intercession ;*- seeing 
that no sin can be committed for which the satisfaction made 
upon Calvary, proffers not an immediate and thorough expia- 
tion. The Redeemer presents the oblation prescribed for every 
offence and every short- coming* 

I would ask all Roman catholics, do the assertions of your 
Romish Church lock like Christianity — like the glad tidings of 
great joy to all people ? If you believe this, you believe that 
there are sins, from which the blood of Christ does not cleanse 
the believing soul. And yet these are venial sins, very par- 
donable offences, against God and your neighbour." 

I am at length satisfied that popery has no gospel. Popery 
obscures the true way of justification. Popery keeps men in 
bondage. Popery hinders Italy from becoming a noble na- 
tion and free. Popery is cruel and ruinous to the souls ! Po- 
pery is anti- christian ! 

Oh ! what a mercy to be delivered from the dread of the 
flames of Purgatory ; to see them all quenched by a single 
drop of the blood of Christ ! It is like the children saved by 
Josiah from dread of the lurid flames of the valley of Hinnom. 



CHAPTER XLIII. 

INDULGENCES. 

Indulgences are defined to be a remission of the temporal 
punishment due to sin by the decree of God, when its guilt 
and eternal punishment are remitted, and which may consist 
either of evil in this life, or temporal suffering in the next, 
which temporal suffering is called " Purgatory." 

ASSERTIONS OF THE ROMISH CHURCH. 

" I affirm that the power of Indulgences was left by Christ 



MY CONFESSIONS. 385 

to His Church ; and that the use of them is very helpful to 
Christian people. — (Creed of Pius IV. Art. 15.) 

CONTRADICTED BY THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. 

It is the prerogative of the Infinite Almighty God alone to 
forgive sins. — (Psalm cxxx. 4. Isa. xliii, 25, xliv. 22. Jer. l. 
20. Mark ii. 7. Luke v. 21. Eph. iv. 32) and that when 
iv e have done all these things which are commanded us , — (Luke 
xvii, 1 0) we are unprofitable seiwants. 

It is a fact, well attested in Ecclesiastical History, that the 
power of granting indulgences was not claimed by the Popes 
before the twelfth century ; consequently it never was nor 
could have been left by Christ to his Church. 

The following is a translation of the form of Indulgence sold 
by John Tetzet, under the authority of Leo X, and signed by 
him " Fr. Johannes Tetzet Subcommissarius proprio manu 
scrip sit." 

" May our Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon thee, and 
absolve thee by the merits of His most holy passion ! 

" And I, by the authority of his apostles Peter and Paul, 
and of the most holy pope, granted to me in these parts, do 
absolve thee ; first, from all ecclesiastical censures in whatever 
manner they have been incurred ; and then from all thy sins, 
transgressions , and excesses, how enormous soever they may he, 
even from such as are reserved for the cognizance of the Holy 
See ; and, as far as the keys of the Holy Church extend, I 
remit to thee all punishment which thou deservest in Purga- 
tory on th ant ; and / restore thee to the Holy Sacra- 
ments of the Church, to the unity of the faithful, and to that 
innocence and purity which thou didst possess at baptism ; so that 
when thou diest, the gates of punishment shall be shut, 

AND THE GATES OF THE PARADISE OF DELIGHTS SHALL BE 

opened. And if thou shalt not die at present, this grace shall 
remain in se when thou art at the point of death. In 

s 



38 6 MY CONFESSIONS. 

the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
Ghost. Amen. — (Seckendarf, Com, de Lutheranismo p. 14. 
Francfurt, 1622). 

That indulgences have been sold since the time of Leo X. 
for the commission of the most profligate crimes, has been 
proved by the unimpeachable testimony of the Romish writers.* 

In the year 1709, a Bristol privateer captured a vessel from 
Spain, on her passage to America, which had on board up- 
wards of three millions of these bulls of indulgence, which 
were to be sold to the people in America, at various prices, 
from twenty pence to the poor, to as much as eleven pounds 
for the rich. 

In the year 1800, a Spanish ship from Europe was captured 
near the coast of South America, by Admiral Harvey, then 
captain of the Southampton frigate. There were on board 
large bales of paper, valued in her books at £7,500. These 
were indulgences or pardons for various sins mentioned in 
the catholic rubric, and the price which varied from half a 
dollar to seven dollars, was marked upon each. At Tortola 
some Dutch merchant bought the whole for £200, with the 
hope of being able to smuggle them among the Spaniards in 
America. — (Hamilton's Tracts on some leading Errors of the 
Church of Rome, p. C8.) 

* The testimonies of Romanist writers to the sale of Indulgences 
may be seen in the Bishop Phillpott's Letters to Mr. Butler, pp. 151, 
153; or in Dr. Hale's Analysis of Chronology, vol. ii ; part ii. p. 1019, 
1022 ; and especially in " Taxatio Papalis ;" being an account of the 
Tax Books of the United Church and Court of modern Rome," 8ro. 
London, 1825. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 387 



CHAPTER XLIV. 
ON THE INVOCATION OF SAINTS AND ANGELS. 

ASSERTIONS OF THE ROMISH CHURCH. 

" I also believe that the saints who reign with Christ are to 
be venerated and invoked, and that they offer prayers to God 
for us., and that their relics are to be venerated. — (Creed of 
Pius IV. Art. 8.) 

CONTRADICTED BY THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. 

We find frcm the record of the Acts of the Apostles, that 
after they were endued with power from on high, on the day of 
Pentecost, they went forth into all lands, " testifying both to 
the Jews, and also to the Greeks, repentance toward God, and 
faith toward our Jesus Christ ; that there was but one media- 
tor between God and man, the man Christ Jesus ; and that 
there was w one other name under Heaven given among men, where- 
by they could be saved" — (Acts, chap 2.) 

The Scriptures expressly affirm that God alone is the proper 
object of our worship. " Thou shait worship the Lord thy 
God, and Him only shalt thou serve."— (Matt. 4. 10.) 

" It is written" saith Jesus Christ, and therefore it must 
refer to Deut. 6, 13. " Thou shalt fear the Lord thy God and 
serve Him, 

And again (Deut. x. 20.) " Him shalt thou serve, and to 
Him shalt thou cleave ;" that is, " Him only shalt thou serve, 
and to Him only shalt thru cleave in tlie way of divine wor- 
ship ; for so our infallible instructor interprets it." — (Matt. 4, 
v. 10.) " Thou sLalt worship the God thy Lord and Him only. 

s 2 



383 MY CONFESSIONS, 

The Scripture says that Jesus Christ is our only mediator 
and advocate with God, and the only foundation of our salva- 
tion. " There is one God and one mediator between God and 
man , the man Christ Jesus who gave himself a ransom for all." 
— (1 Tim. 2. 5, 6.) 

"If any man sin, ice have an Advocate with the Father, 
Jesus Christ, the righteous ; and he is the propitiation for our 
sins, and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole 
world" — (1 John, 11, 1, 2.) 

"Neither is there salvation in any other, for there is none 
other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be 
saved." — (Acts 4. 12.) 

" Other foundation can no man lay, than that is laid, which 
is Jesus Christ." — (1 Cor. 3. II.) 

The souls of the saints in heaven are ignorant of our wants, 
and neither do, nor can hear our prayers. " The living know 
that they shall die ; but the dead know not any thing, neither 
have they any more a reward, for the memory of them is for- 
gotten." — (Eccl. 9- 5.) 

The worship of angels is expressly prohibited. " Let no 
man beguile you of your reward in a voluntary humility, and 
worshipping of angels, intruding into those things which he hath 
not seen, vainly puffed up by his fleshy mood." — (Col. c. 2, v. 
18). 

Though the Virgin Mary was the mother of Christ, yet that 
circumstance gave her no authority over him : on the contrary, 
he preferred obedience to the will of God, to that relation. 
11 The mother of Jesus saithunto him, They have no wine ; Jesus 
saith unto her, what have I to do with thee ?" — (John, 2, 3, 4.) 
"A certain woman of the company lifted up her voice and said 
unto him, ' Blessed is the womb that bore thee, and the paps which 
thou hast sucked. But he said, yea rather, blessed are they that 
hear the word of God and keep it." — (Luke 11, 27, 28.) 

The invocation of saints, and of the Virgin Mary, was first 
introduced by Petrus Gnapheus, a presbyter of Antioch, about 
a.d. 470, and it was not received into the public litanies until 
about one hundred and fifty years later. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 389 

Temples were erected in honour of supposed saints, only in 
the sixth century ; and it was not till the latter part of the 
ninth century, that the Roman pontiffs impiously arrogated to 
themselves the power of raising defunct sinful mortals to the 
dignity of immortal saints, and constituting them objects of 
worship, whose prayers and merits procure blessings, and by 
whose hands they are imagined to be conveyed. 

When the apostles assembled together, to elect a successor 
in lieu of the traitor Judas, to whom did the}^ address their 
supplications ? To prophets ? To patriarchs ? To angels ? 

No. They invoked, as the contest shows, the Lord Jesus 
Christ, and him alone. — (iVcts 1, 24.) 

Did the immediate descendants of the patriarchs, whose lives 
were embittered by the severity of their bondage in Egypt — 
did they invoke deliverance from Abraham, Isaac, or Joseph ? 

No. — " The children of Israel " Moses relates, sighed by rea- 
son of their bondage ; and they cried, and their cry came up 
unto God"— (Exod. 2. 23.) 

The Romish Church honours the angels as mediators, and 
addresses to them invocations. Thus in one of her litanies, 
" Holy Michael, pray for us ! Holy Gabriel, pray for us ! 
Holy Raphael, pray for us ! All holy angels and archangels, 
pray ye for us !" 

The church of Rome asks the protestants why they reprove 
her for worshipping the angels, when St. John himself did it ? 
But does the church of Rome recollect that when John once 
and again was about to fall down at the feet of an angel to 
worship him, he was rebuked after this manner. 

" See thou do it not, I am thy fellow -servant, and of thy 
brethren that have the testimony of Jesus ; worship God, for 
the testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy." — (Rev. 1Q, 
10 ; and 22, 9.) 

The only argument of the Romanists for this practice, is an 
affectation of humility : " We presume not to go at once to 
God or Christ, but we go to the angels:" and they use the 



390 MY CONFESSIONS. 

same argument for praying to the saints, and above all, to the 
Virgin Mary, * 



CHAPTER XLV. 

THE WORSHIP OF IMAGES. 

ASSERTION OF THE ROMISH CHURCH. 

" It is lawful to represent God and the Holy Trinity by 
images ; and that the images and relics of Christ and the saints 
are to be duly honoured, venerated, or worshipped ; and that 
in this veneration and worship, those are venerated which are 
represented by thera." — (Cone. Trid, Sess. 25 de Invocat.) 

" I most firmly assert, that, the images of Christ and of the 
mother of God, who was always a Virgin, are to be had and 
retained ; and due honour and worship is to be given to them." 
—(Creed of Pius IV. Art. 9.) 

The worship thus enjoined, consists of kissing images, un- 
covering the head, bowing and making prayers to them, and 
offering incense. 

contradicted by the holy scriptures. 

" Thou shall not make unto thee any graven image, or any 
likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or in the earth be- 

* " The Romanists say ten aves for one pater" says Bishop Burnet ; 
(art. 22) i e. for one prayer to God, they make ten to the Virgin ! Gre- 
gory XVI, in his Encyclical Letter, has lately wrote thus ; " Let us 
raise our eyes to the most blessed Virgin Mary, who alone destroys he- 
resies^ who is our great hope, yea, the entire ground of our hope.'"—' 
(Meek. p. 341;. Thus Romanism has not changed on this point. 



MY CONFESSIONS. 391 

neath, or that is in the icater under the earth. Thou slialt not 
bow down thyself to them, nor serve them." — (Exod. 20, 4 5. 
See also Deut. 4. 15, 10.— Acts. 17, 29.) 



CHAPTER XLVL 



EUCHARIST. 

Nor is the doctrine of Transubstantiation harmless ! — It leads 
to the adoration of the bread, which is idolatry : it wonderfully 
exalts the priesthood, by asserting that they have authority, by 
uttering a few words, to make a God : it makes infidels to 
scoff at the true miracles of Scripture, seeing they can judge so 
easily of this pretended miracle ; it dishonours the one sacrifice 
of Christ once offered, never to be repeated ; — whereas, this is 
accounted a true sacrifice of Christ, and is repeated every 
day. 



CHAPTER XLVIL 

I have set this day before all Roman Catholics — and par- 
ticularly before my countrymen — a sketch of what I have 
heard, read, and been taught respecting the two systems — that 
of Romanism and that of Protestantism. 

In illustrating the doctrine of Scripture : in having en- 
deavoured to bring it down to the level of undisciplined un- 
derstanding, I have found that doctrine presenting itself to 
my own mind with a new power and unimagined beauty* 



•592 MY CONFESSIONS. 

Never again shall I dream that their differences are unim- 
portant; they are eternally important, notwithstanding the 
efforts that are made by nominal Protestants to gloss them 
over. 

The Romanists know this full well, and they laugh in their 
sleeves at those Protestants — I might say hypocrites ! — who 
are lulled to sleep on the soft pillow of modern liberality and 
indifference. But in unison with the greatest divines of the 
Church of England and other great divisions of the Reformed 
Church, I firmly believe, that if there be truth in prophecy, 
the Roman Catholic Religion is the great apo stagy foretold 
in the prophetic oracles, and they who deliberately embrace it, 
are guilty of the great transgression so earnestly deprecated 
by David. 

Gradually persuaded of the sincerity, of the rectitude o the 
doctrine preached by the Rev. Sanderson Robins, I felt myself 
imperatively called upon, though at much individual sacrifice, 
to abandon the Roman for the Protestant Christian Church ; 
and this, with thankfulness to my Maker for His assistance, I 
did on the 7th of June \ 835. 

It was the day of Pentecost. 

But, whilst I was preparing myself to approach the altar, 
where I was about to receive, for the first time in my life, the 
Holy Sacrament administered by a Protestant clergyman, I 
felt, on a sudden, overcome by a tremor and a feeling of agony 
I had never before experienced. A cold perspiration stood 
upon my brow and I seemed powerless to support myself. 

" Wherefore, then, didst thou not abandon thy design," 
will be the demand of every Roman Catholic ; " was not that 
tremor. . . .that agony. . . . that extraordinary agitation, a 
manifestation from Heaven that God frowned upon the Ca- 
tholic about to abjure the religion of his fathers ?" 

No — this fearful emotion was but the sudden wakening 
within me of the sentiment of my own unworthiness • . . .the 
consciousness of how little was I prepared to find the darkness 



MY CONFESSIONS; S9S 

....the grave of my own heart illumined by Heaven's own 
light, and the hope of eternity !" 

For one second I hesitated. Ought I to approach this sacred 
altar ? when, unconsciously, my eye wandered over the verse 
of a Psalm which lay open before me — 



" I will lift up my eyes unto the hills," etc. 



A heavenly balm instantly possessed my heart ; and then, 
glowing with a feeling of humility and gratitude to God ; of 
faith in the merits of Jesus, and in the hope of pardon ; I knelt 
and received from the hands of Mr. Robins " The Christian 
Sacrament I" 



CHAPTER XLVIII. 



" I thank thee, oh Heavenly Father , God of Mercy and 
consolation !" 

" My soul is escaped as a bird out of the snare of the 
fowlers : the snare is broken,, and I am escaped : blessed be 
the Lord who hath not given me as a prey to their teeth. My 
help is in the name of the Lord, who made Heaven and earth. 3 ' 
—(Psalm 124, v. 6, 7,8.) 

Alas ! Guido the Protestant is now perhaps alienated for 
ever from a father he adores, from his Cleofe, his whole 
family, his fellow-countrymen, still so dear to him, — in 
short, from the heart of every Roman Catholic upon the face of 
the earth, 

s 3 



394 MY CONFESSIONS. 

To forfeit our kindred's affection, is indeed to lose the most 
precious drop of the little balm which renders life, if not lovely, 
at least supportable. 

To expose oneself to the censure — perhaps to the malediction 
— of those whom we prize and love, is indeed a poisoned 
thorn to the generous and sensitive heart ! 

Still, neither the forfeiture of so much affection, nor the entire 
abandonment of the whole world can ever awaken one feeling 
of regret for what 1 have done, or induce me to retrace one 
step I have taken. Oh ! would to God that that light might 
dawn upon my beautiful land, which for three hundred years 
has shone in Heaven upon the inhabitants of this isle — a dawn 
which, commencing with religious liberty, has borne in its train 
political freedom and independence ! — a light which has proved 
the beacon. . . .the guide to those institutions which, together, 
lay the foundation of prosperity, spiritual and temporal — the 
source of those domestic relations, of religion and patriotism, 
which are the spring of this nation, and which can alone ensure 
the prosperity, the independence, the national dignity of any 
country ; — sentiments which Cranmer, Latimer, Hooper, 
Ridley, and other equally exalted men, traced in characters of 
blood upon the hearts of the Protestants of their day and which 
are now born with every other. 



CHAPTER LXIX. 



C€ No, my loved father, my own Cleofe, my sisters, my brothers, 
my countrymen— ye Roman Catholics ! — No, dear Pellico ! for 
none of you is the heart of Guido changed. His love for 
you is greater than ever : but it is now a love more fervent, 



MY CONFESSIONS. 395 

more pure, more holy ! The spirit of my Saviour, to whom I 
pray constantly to be drawn nearer and nearer, is not the 
spirit of dissension : it is that of peace and unity. The love 
I once bore ye, was the desire of ycur presence. . . . the joy of 
the soul, when hand presses hand, and the lip imprints the 
kiss awakened by the heart's loveliest. . . .holiest impulse ! It 
was the longing for the vcice, whose echoes of my name 
vibrated upon my soul with the heavenly thrill of transport. 

But the love of Guido the Protestant now guides him daily 
to the throne of the Most High, where from the chamber of 
the exile he implores Heaven's blessing upon ye all ! It 
teaches him resignation to the misery of separation, and to 
sacrifice your loved presence at the foot of the cross — a sacrifice 
which, though bedewed with the tear frail humanity cannot 
suppress, is yet offered with a cheerful heart and with faith in 
the mercy of that God who has demanded so hard a sacrifice ! 
It prompts him never to cease the prayer that he may one day 
meet ye all in that true country, in the heavenly Jerusalem the 
city of peace — and the presence of the Lord. 



CHAPTER L. 



" To the Rev. Sanderson Robins, M. A. 

" What thanks can I offer to one who has conferred upon 
me the inestimable benefit I now enjoy ? 

" Such is its importance, that the most solemn words, the 
most affectionate expressions, the highest eulogies — even sup- 
posing them at my command — were all insufficient to express 
the gratitude I feel. 

" But God will supply this my deficiency to your heart. 



3Q6 MY CONFESSIONS. 

" He is ever with them who, like yourself, make it the occu- 
pation of their life to teach the Gospel of Jesus Christ. 

l( The consciousness of the good you have wrought for me, 
will be your best reward, Kow often have I heard you from 
your pulpit dilate upon the happiness of that clergyman, who 
has been successful in the conversion of a sinner. 

" I implore you, then, cease not to pray the Lord that the 
work you have so well begun may have a successful issue — that 
the wandering sheep the good shepherd has recovered may be 
found one day with himself in the bosom of peace and of his 
God! 

" How proud I feel in declaring myself publicly, 

" Your grateful, humble, and affectionate disciple, 

" GUIDO SORELLI." 



CHAPTER LI. 



Behold me at the termination of my work ! My promise 
to Silvio Pellico has been fulfilled ! — and now behold me, by 
God's help, sufficiently unveiled for him to judge what I was 
and what I am. To seal my labours, it now only remains for 
me to declare what I in future propose, what I hope, what I 
pray to be. 

Life has now no longer a mask, no longer any poetry for 
me. 

If from the day I commenced its ascent, I ever found my 
path stony and uninviting, the prospect its summit now presents 
to me is such, that with a glad heart I shall to-morrow turn 
my back upon all, and silently descend with cheerful resigna- 



MY CONFESSIONS. S97 

tion, to mingle again, whenever it shall please God, with the 
dust from which I was created. 

An exile from earth's brightest land — separated from a 
beloved and loving kindred ! Alone, in a foreign country, where 
love and friendship were bestowed but to be withdrawn : 
where the proffered patronage of the proud ones of this earth 
proved to me but an empty sound, borne away by the zephir's 
breath — a torrid sun, which neither invigorates nor nourishes, 
but consumes me : water to the parched lip of Tantalus : the 
unprofitable smell of the never-granted fruit : an atmosphere 
of foolish honor and empty applause, whilst the poem is left 
without reward, and the poet without bread ! 

Such is Guido Sorelli's prospect from the mount of his 
existence ! 

Adieu, sweet hope of my youth ! Farewell thou April of 
existence! w x hich, though flowery in thy nature wert never 
bright to me. Adieu, vanities, whose graceful forms seemed to 
me invested with individuality ! 

The world is now for me but a wretched drama drawing to 
its close. But, in exchange for every past hope and expecta- 
tion blighted on earth, I have obtained an inward peace. And 
though it be not the peace which flows like a torrent in its 
abundance — although hopeless of this world's future, still it is 
peace! — It is the calm of patient self- sacrifice : the purer, the 
deeper and the more exhaustless, from being founded on the 
basis of wishing naught save that which God wills. 

No longer will I struggle 

" For all the gifts to fortune's care consigned, 
Sought with such anxious labour by mankind, 

but I will endeavour to obtain a more valuable treasure ; and, 
as I have been taught by the Protestant preachers, I will strive, 
through God's grace, to give myself to the business of putting 
off the old man. I will no longer affirm that I believe there is 
a Heaven, and yet act as though persuaded that it is not worth 



398 MY CONFESSIONS. 

striving for. I will strive, for the grasp of the destroyer is . 
upon me ; and if I be not wrenched away, it will palsy me , 
and crash me. I will strive, for the foe is on my right 
hand, on my left hand, before me, behind me ; and I must 
be trampled under foot, if I struggle not, and strike not, as 
those who feel themselves bound in a death-grapple. I will 
strive, for there is a crown to be won, — the mines of the 
earth have not furnished its metal, and the depths of the sea 
hide nothing so radiant as the jewels with which it is wreathed. 
I will strive, for if I gain not this crown, alas, alas ! I must 
have the scorpions for ever round my forehead, and the cir- 
cles of that flame which is fanned by the breath of the 
Almighty's displeasure. I will strive, but strive in the strength 
of our risen Lord, and net in my men, I will strive, for I 
know not how soon that Lord may come. Whilst the sun 
walks his usual path on the firmament, and the grass is 
springing in our fields, and merchants are crowding the ex- 
change, and politicians jostling for place, and the voluptuous 
killing time, and the avaricious counting gold, the " sign of 
the Son of Man" shall be seen in the heavens, and the august 
throne of fire and of cloud be piled for judgement. I will 
strive, for there is truth in Jesus which is terrible, as well as 
truth which is soothing ; terrible, for He shall be judge as 
well as Saviour ; and I cannot face Him, I cannot stand before 
Him, unless I now give ear to His invitation, " Come unto 

ME AIL YE THAT LABOUR AND ARE HEAVILY LADEN, AND 
I WILL GIVE YOU REST." 

Worldly anticipations and reflections bruise the soul ! — 
Alas ! how have they bruised mine ! — and soon will they still 
this fragile earthly temple into the silence of death! 

Adieu, then, even to you anticipations and reflections ! 



THE END. 



LONDON : 
SCHULZE AND CO, 13, POLAND STRFET. 



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